


Quando Omni Flunkus Moritati

by Zigadenus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Horror, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5241752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigadenus/pseuds/Zigadenus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And shall I call you Grey Owl, then, Professor Snape?" Unspeakable things are happening deep in the hinterland, and Ms. H. Granger-Weasley (Undersecretary, Magical Law Enforcement) is determined to investigate – the more so because it's definitely not in her job description. Adventure/Horror, a little citrus-y, mostly canon-compliant.</p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/">
      <img/>
    </a>
  </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. How to win 'friends'...

**Author's Note:**

> Important Stuff:
> 
> Public figures, actual places, and current events are used fictitiously, and should be understood as parody. None of the characters in this story are, or are meant to represent, real individuals, living or dead.
> 
> This story contains references to several Omuškēkowak and Assin'skowitiniwak cultural narratives. As a reader, you should understand that I will be incorporating them fictionally into the Potterverse; I hope to do this with sensitivity and compassion. To learn legitimate cultural contexts, I highly suggest the collected oral works of Louis Bird, archived at [www.ourvoices.ca], as well as several written collections and academic works, which I intend to list after the epilogue.

Ms. H. Granger-Weasley awkwardly swayed on one foot as she worked the buckle of her shoe. Her handbag slipped down to her elbow – _again_ – and finally, with a sigh, she dropped the bag, dropped the papers, dropped the cloak, and wrenched off the shoes. A broken fingernail snagged in her nylons - after the kind of day she'd been having, this wasn't even worth cursing about. Hell, she was 36 years old: her boobs only looked perky because she'd discovered the magic of underwires; two pregnancies had left her with a vivid collection of stretch marks; and too many late nights working the files overtime had seen her foraging for dinner in the Ministry cafeteria to the detriment of more than one diet. In short, no one was going to look twice at the run up her left leg, because no one was going to look twice, period.

"Hello, bonjour."

"Hello," she responded. They weren't actually greeting her – it was the oblique Canadian way of checking to see which language to use.

"Any jewellery, coins or keys? Liquids, gels or aerosols? Alright, I need to see your Portkey Authority ticket – alright, London… Heathrow, that's in order. If you'll pass me your wand and step up for screening, please."

She planted her feet the prescribed distance, and extended her arms. The security spell tickled across her body like a mild electric shock; she scratched at her arms to dispel the sensation before collecting her belongings from the conveyor.

"Hello, bonjour. Vous avez quelque chose métallique dans vos poches? Avez-vous des liquides, gels ou aérosols? D'accord, je dois voir votre billet de l'Autorité Internationale de Portkey, s'il vous plait…" The bored drone of the security witch faded behind her, lost beneath a crackling loudspeaker announcement insisting that all clients taking a 13:15-13:30 portkey to Amsterdam check in with the gate attendant.

She hoisted her handbag back up her shoulder, and set off down the curving, sterile white corridor in search of the London departures gate. Pearson International was too bloody bright for how exhausted she was; the afternoon sun drenched in through the high windows, bouncing against the blazing white ceiling and walls. Even though the seats at the gates didn't have armrests to obstruct attempts to stretch out, you simply couldn't nap in a place like this. She snagged an abandoned copy of the morning's _Toronto Star_ and settled onto one of the lumpy, barely-padded gray benches. Two more hours.

Two more hours waiting for the portkey, a quick apparition, and then she would finally be home; perhaps Ron had even cooked. She didn't hold out a lot of hope there, he'd not been good about it since the kids had gone back to Hogwarts. Still, you never knew. And she supposed it probably _was_ her turn – she likely had several full years' worth of 'her turns' to account for.

She dug her mobile out of her handbag, and keyed in the number for the landline at the house. Mobile service was too sketchy to be worthwhile in Ottery St. Catchpole, the residue of centuries of magic clung to the area like a resistant smog, unfailingly dulling the cutting edge of Muggle technology. Ron picked up on the third ring. "Hey, love, done playing nice with the lumberjacks?"

"For now. I'll tell you all about it when I get home." She wouldn't. Ron didn't care much, and she'd given up trying to interest him. "How have things been there? Did you and George straighten out that mess with the distributor in Lyons?"

She folded open the paper, as Ron updated her with the latest managerial travails. She'd read a scathing editorial indictment of the incumbent government's dog-whistle electoral campaign by the time Ron had run down on the inefficiency of the French franchises of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. He'd changed tack to the latest from Charlie, when a photo halfway down the front page caught her eye.

Something was oddly familiar about the man's bulging eyes, and wide, drooping jowls. It took her a moment, but "Umbridge!"

"—what? What's she got to do with – Hermione?"

"I'm sorry Ron, I just glanced at the paper, and there's a fellow here who could be Umbridge's long-lost brother. Sorry, it just caught my eye, you were saying about Charlie?"

"Just that he won't be coming in until Friday morning at the earliest. On account of the hatching cycle being off."

"Well, that's alright then, it'll give us a few more days to get the house in order."

"Give _who_ a few more days?" he teased.

"And I love you dearly, you are the most darling-est man I've ever been married to." She kissed at the phone, and his laughter carried across the Atlantic, tinny but genuine. She smiled fondly, and straightened the paper as he began to regale her with another edition of what she'd mentally christened Rose's Gossip Sheet. The caption beneath the toad-faced politician identified him as Parliamentary Secretary Paul Calandra – unlikely a relation, despite the uncanny resemblance.

She made an encouraging sound as Ron paused, and flipped to the next page of the paper. _Idle No More: Indigenous Protestors March on Parliament Hill._ Rose's letter was on to the latest Slytherin vs. Gryffindor Quidditch match. She could get through one of Rose's magnum opuses in about 3 minutes – the trick was to skim for the verbs. Ron, bless him, actually _read_ the things. She tuned out, and scanned the article. It was some sort of grassroots movement, indigenous people and their allies protesting everything from a lack of clean drinking water to pipeline development, and the need to investigate missing and murdered women. "That's marvellous, Ron, she certainly does take after you."

It was the truth, both of them did. She didn't suppose that actually absolved her of being a rotten parent. But on the other hand, she didn't suppose they really cared; Grandma Molly baked their birthday cakes – her own early attempts having not been up to the Weasley Standard, apparently – and they had invariably preferred their father or Uncle George on 'Take Your Child to Work' days at their Muggle primary. Dad and Uncle Harry told better bedtime stories, and they'd rather spend an afternoon with Aunt Ginny and her Quidditch-mad brood than alone-time with Mum. Besides, Mum was always busy with work, even when she was home. She didn't quite think they knew yet that Mum was _happier_ working than ineffectively parenting the alien little creatures who had gestated in her uterus for nine months. They didn't run on logic, and showed no signs of developing the potential – it was probably better results all around if other feelings-first thinkers were the ones helping them shamble towards adulthood.

It had stung a little, though, when they'd given her a "World's Worst Mum" coffee mug.

She'd laughed, and accorded it a place of honour on the desk in her study, but the withered part of her that had been so excited about motherhood did still twinge occasionally with remembered hurt. She quietly rearranged the paper so that she could read the lower half of the article.

There was a photograph, a sea of signs declaiming injustice in vivid reds, yellow, fluorescent green. It was the eyes that snagged her, reeled her into their dark depths. The weathered tan, the plaid shirt, the twin braids beginning to show strands of gray, the hooked nose that dominated his features – she'd have looked past, just another nameless body in the throng.

But there was no mistaking those eyes.

The phone slipped from fingers gone suddenly numb, clattering to the floor. She stared down at it blankly for a moment, until the thin tendril of Ron's alarmed cries called her back.

"I'm fine, everything's fine. I just startled, dropped the phone." She stared again at the photograph, tallying the details, challenging herself to find the lie.

Because those eyes had dimmed and died on the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack.

"It was another call coming through, made me jump, is all. I should take it, though, can I call you back?"

She carefully placed her hands across the image, covered away the extraneous details, so that only the sharp wedge of his face was visible between her fingers.

A little worse for wear, a little older, but there he was. Severus Snape.

* * *

She brushed ineffectively at her suit jacket, trying to dislodge some of the ash from the fireplace. For the main connection between the Pearson International's Portkey Authority office and the federal Office of Magical Affairs, the Floo didn't seem to get much use. Certainly, the Canadian equivalent of the Ministry of Magic was quieter than its British counterpart; it almost seemed understaffed, but then there were so many fewer wizards here.

It was a shame she hadn't brought more suits; the Office turned out to be in the same building as a variety of Muggle departments. If she were here many days, she'd have to send her wardrobe off for dry-cleaning. She'd packed for a three-day conference, and hadn't quite believed the summit coordinators' hearty insistence that they'd be knocking flat up against Muggles at every turn. She was one of the lucky ones, she'd stayed savvy to the Muggle world and could actually still dress the part. When she wasn't run out of clothes, anyhow.

Perhaps she could get to the bottom of this quickly – it was what she'd told Ron, after all. Just a few days, someone here with the Canadian ministry wanted to discuss an important case, she was just staying on to sort it out on the ground, instead of having to Portkey back in a month's time, after it had been bollocks'd to hell by trying to coordinate across the pond.

And it wasn't quite lying, was it? She was, in point of fact, certain they _would_ be discussing an important case in fairly short order. She extracted the cropped article, safely ensconced in its new manila case folder, snapped it briskly against her thigh, and nodded at the nervous-looking intern who essayed her an inquiring smile. "I'm Ms. Granger-Weasley, Undersecretary, Magical Law Enforcement in the British Ministry. I'm meeting with Mr. Singh." The intern mumbled into the desk line, smiled again, and gestured her down a hallway of office doors. Efficient. She liked that; it boded well.

Rajit Singh was spare, nattily suited, and meticulously groomed. His voice was soft, and his diction gently lilted but otherwise nearly impeccable. She'd admired his presentation at the summit, and found him now to be refreshingly direct, without lacking in hospitality. He'd gestured her into a chair, served her coffee, and immediately got down to brass tacks: "And this man, he is someone whose whereabouts the British Ministry of Magic is concerned with?"

"Yes. He's wanted for questioning in an internal matter; it's really a fluke that I happened to see his photograph." Little white lies.

"And it is a matter of urgency?"

"Well, only inasmuch as I do have several active portfolios in London…"

"Because I am thinking that to follow our Office's privacy protocol, that is to say, to pinpoint his magical signature as I demonstrated in my presentation, well that would require a writ from the Wands Registry at least. Because we can do these things, we have an ethical obligation not to do them, do you understand?"

Well, she hadn't really thought it would be easy. She'd hoped, but she'd learned not to pin many hopes on the efficiency of bureaucracy, even one as small and orderly as the Canadian Office of Magical Affairs. Still, they could have provided a neat solution: their relatively sparse wizarding population was both more highly integrated into Muggle Society, and less-given to casual use of magic; the Canadians had capitalized on the hitherto unrealized potential for tracking and surveiling an individual using the signature of their spells, literally observing their activities via the lingering residue of their magic.

"But I am also thinking, you see, that if time is of essence, there is another way you can do this."

"Go on."

"Well, unless I am mistaken, you are lucky, because this photographer, this O. Cheung? This will be Olivia Cheung, she is a, how do you call them? A Squib. She also does magical photographs, it is just a potion, you see, and I am thinking she has the negative for this photograph, and she could develop it for you."

"And then I could use a _Locus_ transference spell, yes, I see, that _would_ work."

"It is a little inelegant, but unless he is in the heart of Toronto or Montreal, I do not think you will have much difficulty finding him. And if he is in the city? Well, somebody will be knowing where he is. There are not so many of us."

"And this may even work better than the signature profiling; there's a chance, after all, that he won't be using magic," she said thoughtfully.

"He is not wanting to be found by your Ministry, you mean?"

"I think it's very likely, yes. We had no idea he was here."

"This matter in which you are wanting him, it involves your Aurors, yes?"

"Possibly, yes."

"I see. I think you are wanting to talk with our chief liaison to the RCMP and CSIS, as well, then. You have met Audrey Lefebvre?"

"Yes, we chatted at some length during the summit, and we worked together briefly on the Rowe case several years ago."

"Good, that is good. I think you must give her a call – you use a cellular phone, yes? – then you must give her a call today, she will know better how to proceed with surveillance than I. I am managing the technical aspects of this only, the directive to begin surveillance must come to me through official channels, you understand how these things are." With nearly two decades of Ministry bureaucracy under her belt, H. Granger-Weasley certainly did understand, and she allowed herself to be courteously hustled out of Singh's office.

Lefebvre was a known quantity, an energetic paper-pusher who divided her time between legal wrangling with the Muggle authorities, and a teaching load of esoteric liberal arts courses at one of the Toronto universities. Her voicemail sounded like it had been recorded past a sharky grin, too many gleaming teeth displayed to qualify as a smile: "'Allo, Lefebvre, leave a message, laissez-moi un message. If it's between 9 and 5, I'm probably lecturing, otherwise I'm just avoiding your call. Merci!"

A round of phone tag with the _Toronto Star_ eventually yielded up Olivia Cheung's mobile after some judicious name-dropping, and by that time, Lefebvre was picking up her calls. She began explaining the situation, but the other witch, a bit breathless from a fast walk (judging by the rapid click of her heels), cut her off:

"Listen, I'm done at 5:00 after my Gender Dynamics in Medieval History seminar, what if you meet me on campus? There are a few places around here I can set up privacy wards that won't be noticed by the Muggles, and then we can talk."

"That sounds good, Audrey, I appreciate this very much. So 5:00 then?"

"Yes, do you think you could find me in the Philosopher's Walk? It's a greenspace, just follow-"

"Yes, I think I remember, by the Museum? I'm sure that won't be a problem. There's some columns, or pillars or something by the south entrance, if I wait for you there?"

"Good, great, see you soon."

Cheung was a good deal easier to pin down, and readily agreed to meet near the university. An offer of fifty dollars for the developed negative had probably contributed. People were a good deal more pliant when lubricated with cold, hard cash.

An apparition back to Pearson, an uncomfortable bus ride, and twenty-five minutes on the train saw Ms. H. Granger-Weasley navigating Bloor Street from Spadina Station, in shoes definitely not made for walking. InterContinental, check; Conservatory, check; Royal Ontario Museum, check. You couldn't really miss the damn thing, what with the massive glass crystals poking out the front of it. So the pub Cheung wanted to meet at ought to be along this block... She'd grown more than weary with the local tendency to give directions by reference to landmarks; did no one here navigate by numerical address at all? Aha, there it was, Gabby's, tucked in between two concrete corporate monoliths.

She felt a sticky, tingly warmth as she passed into the pub. It was a familiar sensation, nearly unnoticeable back home in its homogeneity. Here, it was localized, dense, and marked an obvious transition between two worlds. Despite the flatscreen televisions simultaneously broadcasting baseball and hockey games, this was a Wizarding hotspot.

The clientele looked banal and ordinary, however. Well, as ordinary as a crowd of students usually did, she supposed. There were a lot of ripped denims, plaid, and horn-rimmed glasses. She scanned the crowd along the bar, and a slim Asian girl waved at her.

"Hi, you're Hermione, then?"

"Yes. You must be Ms. Cheung."

"Olivia, yeah. Sorry about the crush in here, hang on a sec – Jack? Jack! Alright if we go downstairs?"

The bartender gave them a long, careful look, and finally nodded.

She followed Cheung down a narrow stairwell, and felt the magic swell. It was the same pressurized sensation she got passing through the archway into Diagon Alley, and just when it felt like her ears were about to pop, they were suddenly through the wards.

"Sorry if you've been waiting long," she apologized to Cheung, "I wish you had mentioned this was a Wizarding establishment, I'd have used the Floo and been here earlier."

"It's not really, it's Squibby, but there's magical folk here lots, because of the museum, mostly. They haven't got a Floo connection, though, so it wouldn't have helped you any. The nearest Floo's over at The Artful Dodger, just off Yonge Street. Why didn't you just apparate?"

"Well, I've only been in the university area once before, I wasn't sure about my bearings," she confessed.

"Oh! You should've just looked it up with Google Streetview, that's what most people do. All you need in order to apparate is an idea of what a place looks like, from what I know of the theory." Cheung cracked her bubblegum, and began to peruse a menu.

"How do you mean, most people? The average witch or wizard doesn't even know what Google is –"

"Maybe _your_ average. We're a lot more tightly integrated into Muggle technology here. On account of it working most places, I expect," she added charitably.

"But if people are just popping into place anywhere, in no time at all there should be an accumulation of magical residue…"

"Nah, you've got it backwards. The spell's performed on the end you depart from, so the energy stays there. You can apparate _into_ anywhere, it's disapparating that's regulated in city limits. Keep all the residue contained to as few areas as possible, that way you can still use Wi-Fi! Best of both worlds, really. I'm all for regulating, frankly, damned inconvenient dealing with you magical types mucking things up."

"If that's how you feel, why remain a part of the Wizarding world?" It was a decidedly different sensation, being looked down upon by a Squib.

"Couldn't afford to do a doctoral dissertation, otherwise."

"I didn't think newspaper photography paid so well, even for wizarding rags."

"Oh hell, no, I'd starve. Even with freelancing for the Muggle papers. No, what I meant was _portkeys_. Your kind really never thinks about how much international travel actually costs when you do it the Muggle way. Like, if I had to book a ticket to Rome? That's more than a thousand bucks! Easy. The same portkey, without redeye flights and hours in layover, costs $200."

She stared at the girl. It was true, she hadn't thought of it. But of course, Squibs could use portkeys – after all, that was why they were usually disguised, to keep Muggles from inadvertently picking them up. She frowned and started to ask –

But Cheung was continuing: "But as far as photography goes, I just dabble on the magical side of things. I almost always snap a few polaroids when I'm taking pics for the _Star_ , or whatnot. Just in case it turns out to be relevant on the Wizarding side; that way I've got something on hand to sell them. Got an old girlfriend who's a dab hand at brewing the developing potion, so it's no skin off my back. Keeps me in beer funds, mostly.

And that brings us to why you're here, doesn't it?" Cheung pulled a folio out of her rucksack, and spread it open across the table. "I actually already had these developed, it's a set I was pitching to _Raven Post_. Despite King Stevie's desperate attempts to get us all talking nonstop about niqabs, the whole missing-and-murdered aboriginal women thing _is_ an election issue, and you can bet the magical community is paying attention to _this_ election. So yeah, I can only let you have one of the set, that's all you need, right? And I rummaged up some maps for you, like you asked. That'll be an extra $40, by the way, maps cost money. I've got the receipt if you need it."

"Thanks, that's fine," she said absently, as she pored over the photographs. None of them were the picture from the _Star_ , and their inhabitants kept shoving their signs and placards about, obscuring faces. Finally, she found him, off to one side, and apparently in conversation with the heavy-set woman to his left. He turned back to the camera, a familiar scowl lowering his brows. It was him. It was really him. How? "This one will do, I think. Do you mind if I just check if it will work? The spell won't damage it."

"Go ahead, I'm curious. Thought you needed hair or something for a tracking spell."

"Actually, no, just something with a bit of the person's essence. A wizarding photo captures a bit of ambient residue, a tinge of the aura, if you will. It's the developing potion that fixes it; if the photo's too old before it's developed, it'll be gone. Even with the developer, it still leaches out, after a while, so you need a recent photo. Hair would be better, but this should work."

"Is this common knowledge?" Cheung had begun to tap her foot. It was annoying.

"No, it's something we worked out a few years ago." She pressed her wand into the photo, pinning Snape's face beneath its point. She muttered the incantation half-under her breath, and the tip of her wand began to glow. She drew it up, a honeyed sphere of light clinging to the end.

"That's like, what, a bit of his _soul_? Does that work on Muggles? Who is this guy?" Cheung's eyes were round.

"I said, it's a bit of aura. And yes, it works on anyone living, magic or not. And if someone hasn't been dead long, there may be some aura left. It dissipates at a predictable rate."

"But who is he? Is he a Muggle?"

"He's someone I knew many years ago. A wizard." Her tone was repressive. Wand in one hand, she fumbled open the first of the maps Cheung had brought. It was the entire province. Well, perhaps she'd be lucky, and he'd actually be in Ontario, and not the next one over. He'd definitely been in Ottawa last week; the photograph wasn't lying, and she didn't think Cheung had any reason to dissemble on the date. She lowered her wand to the paper, and invoked the second half of the spell.

A fine spiderweb of glowing lines began to propagate across the paper, scuttling along roadways, clinging to the edges of lakes, twisting up rivers and unnamed creeks. Occasionally they coalesced, and only rarely was a cluster isolated from filaments spreading, like axons to ganglia, between density points. "Got you," she grinned, tracing a finger over the densest cluster.

"Wow, that's really up there. Are you sure that's not, I dunno, off, or something?"

"Postive."

"Hunh. It's just, that's super-remote, you have no idea. I mean, that's practically polar bear country, look, it's only a few klicks out of fricking Polar Bear Park, fergodssakes. No one in their right minds would be up there."

"Well, it's possible he's not." In his right mind, she meant, but didn't vocalize, "Shush, now, just for a minute, I need to draw the network in, this spell dissipates fairly quickly." She'd pulled a felt pen from her handbag, and begun to ink in the activity clusters, and the straight lines that violated topography – those had to reflect flight. As the spell wound to completion she realised there were far fewer completely isolated clusters than she'd originally thought. He rarely apparated.

Cheung left, and returned with a drink and a basket of chips in the time it took her to complete the map of Snape's movements. Her hand was cramping, but she'd gotten it done by the time the spell began to fade.

She folded the map, and tucked it into her handbag. She passed Cheung five $20s, and pushed the surplus maps and the photographs back in her direction. "This has been spectacularly helpful, I very much appre—" Her mobile rang. It was Lefebvre. Damn! The time!

"Audrey, hello! Yes, I definitely do still want to meet, it's terribly important that I speak with you. I'd gotten caught up in something, but I'm actually very close by. A pub just across from the ROM. Yes, that's right, Gabby's. Oh! Well, that's convenient, certainly, I'll stay put. Wonderful, see you shortly."

"By 'Audrey', you don't, by any chance, happen to mean Dr. Lefebvre?" Cheung's voice had gone suddenly flat. She was holding a chip in midair. A glop of ketchup dripped off it.

"Yes, actually. You know her?"

Cheung frowned, pursed her lips, and then apparently thought better of it. She shook her head, pushed her glass away, and stood. "I know it's no business of mine, ma'am, but you should count yourself lucky I didn't know this was one of Lefebvre's things. I'd've charged you a whole lot more."

She watched, bemused, as Cheung marched up the stairs and out of her life. She snagged one of the abandoned chips, and shrugged.

Lefebvre was prompt; she came clicking down the stairs and up to the table before the chip basket had more than a dent in it. She pulled a scarf from over her dark, plum-red hair, and grimaced at it. "And of course it's raining out there, wouldn't you know. Splendid, fries; damn the diet, I'm starving. D'you mind? And what's been going on, between now and yesterday afternoon?"

She laid the story (and the map) out for her Canadian counterpart.

"Hrmm. Well, I don't know how much help I can actually be. If he's still a British citizen – offhand I don't know how being declared dead affects that – if he is, the Office can't participate in any actions; that was part of the 1982 repatriation, quid pro quo for your Ministry giving up all its power over Canadian wizards. And even then… I'd have to check to be 100% sure, but I don't think we've ever noted a magical signature from _that_ far north. If he's gone off-grid—"

"Off-grid?"

"Oh, I suppose you say 'gone Muggle'. Same thing. Anyway, we can't touch him if he's legitimately living as a Muggle. Squibs, off-gridders, aboriginal 'medicine', they all fall under Muggle jurisdictions. Our jurisdiction is limited to strictly wizarding cases."

"So I'm on my own, then? Would I even be allowed to go and investigate?"

"You can go, sure. And I might be able to help out, unofficially, at least. I can poke around in the files. At least I can put in an access-to-information request, find out his citizenship. If he's applied or even been granted dual citizenship, there might be extradition tangles I could help you sort. Actually…" She paused and pursed her mauve lips. "Just what was his role in your war?"

"Double-agent, or maybe quadruple depending how you count it; he passed himself off as one of Voldemort's Death Eaters for nearly two decades. Ultimately, it happened he was on our side. There was a short-lived campaign for him to be posthumously cleared of charges in the post-war trials."

"But he ultimately wasn't? Hmm. And apparently he's no longer posthumous."

"Indeed."

"So that's pre-e-e-tty suspicious. Previously involved with a known terrorist organization, currently hiding in northern Ontario, unbeknownst to the British Ministry. Or us, apparently. I'll bet I could sew him up under the wizarding clause in C-51; that'd mean we could surveil, even if he is off-grid. And if he's somehow managed a Canadian citizenship, we can strip that under C-24, easy, known ties to terrorists and all. Yeah, you know what Hermione? I can probably help you out quite a bit, after the paperwork." Never underestimate the powers of bureaucracy. Lefebvre was grinning, and tapping her biro against her knee. The stringy witch seemed positively ecstatic about her self-appointed role as rubber-stamp warrior.

"What do you think the timeline on that would be?"

"Well, I'll have to get started immediately, we're coming up on a federal election in a couple weeks, and the Opposition's said they'll repeal those laws if they form the government. We'll want to get this going fast, get in before a regime change. Although it does look like Trudeau's Liberals are fronting the polls, and no one reckons they're apt to rock the boat much on C-51, at least. Still. I'll start in on it this weekend, get the ball rolling for Monday, eh?"

"And I could theoretically work my own investigation in the meantime?"

"Errrrrm, officially, or unofficially?"

"What would the difference be?"

"Let's just say fly-fishing doesn't muddy up the water."

That suited H. Granger-Weasley just fine. She didn't have authorization to formally investigate Deceased Wizarding Persons anyway. Closed cases were closed, even if the corpse did turn up hale and hearty in a Toronto newspaper.


	2. Into the northlands.

"Of course, the problem is going to be getting there, because in case you didn't notice, there aren't any roads." They'd gone from 'should she' to 'how should she' over a basket of hot wings and several pints of local.

"Seriously? Not even gravelled lanes?"

"Not even interconnected clearcuts, Hermione. The people up there – it's almost all Indians, sorry, First Nations – they get around with fricking _canoes_. Snowmobiles in the winter."

"You're having me on. This is a first world country. How do they get supplies, then?"

"Barge, air. That's what Attawapiskat does, I imagine this Peawanuck place is the same. And you see, they're on rivers. Canoes, or boats with outboard motors, I kid you not."

"Hmm. Well, I don't suppose it matters much what the Muggles do; I'll just portkey to one of these places, then use a broomstick, I guess. I hate flying, but I suppose it can't be helped."

"Oh, you're so cute."

"Hmm?"

"Portkeys. Fuck no, Hermione, making a portkey requires someone who's seen the bloody place. Your Snape is probably the only wizard on the planet who's ever set foot up there. I'm telling you, reeee-mote."

"Well, I can always try apparition, there have got to be photographs, or Google Earth, or something."

"Yeah, yeah, good luck with that. The Wi-Fi here's free, have at." Lefebvre was booting up her laptop computer. "Connection's slow as hell, it's the Anti-Muggle wards down here, but I think this'll work to get the point across. Look, here's the satellite data: you can sort of make out the streets, some nice blurry buildings. Image search is the same, look, this could be anywhere."

"Well, this one's distinctive enough, how common can giant teepee-shaped churches really be?"

"Yeah, but look, see all the snow? I doubt if it's already snowed there right now, it's only the beginning of October. You try apparating into that without knowing what the ground looks like, I give you 10 to 1 odds on splinching. And I sure as fuck wouldn't risk a blind apparition anywhere up in that country; ten miles out of a community and you'd be completely lost, as good as dead. And actually dead, most times of the year. Harsh country up there, even the Indians – First Nations – can't make a living off that land most of the time." Lefebvre settled back, and gnawed a strip of meat from another wing.

This was ridiculous. There had to be some way to accomplish it. She scraped her lower lip between her teeth and contemplated the map again. _Could_ someone manage to fly that distance? It seemed too far to go by broom, even if you liked the things, but how the hell else had Snape managed to get up there? There were definitely a series of straight flight lines leading up to the village-dot identified as Peawanuck, and more leading out to the point where his density-cluster was centered. _Sutton Narrows_ was the closest thing. It seemed to be a topographic feature. Lefebvre had shrugged when she'd asked.

"If he can do it, I should be able to," she huffed.

"Think like a Muggle for a bit, because it looks like that's what he's been doing." Lefebvre tapped one of the heavy, straight lines. "This looks to me like a regional commercial flight, look, coming out of Timmins. He's using Muggle planes, mark my words. Off-gridder.

Why don't you let me put some calls in, I've got an idea. There's this Muggle guy I know over at Ryerson, Geography. He's a friend, you know, the kind with benefits?" Lefebvre smirked, and continued after a beat, "He's always fishing up north, cabin-country mainly, but I'll bet he could hook you up with a flight plan."

She'd left Lefebvre text-messaging, and wandered, a bit unsteadily, to the outdoors outfitting shop she'd recommended. Two and a half hours saw her back in her hotel room, a few hundred dollars lighter, a diminished blood alcohol content, and highly relieved to remove her shoes. She had a blister starting on the outside of her big toe, but it was worth it.

She had gear.

She was _outfitted_.

She flopped back on the bed and squirmed in satisfaction. So many nights, so long ago, she'd huddled in the darkness beneath musty blankets that never seemed to dry out, shaking in the cold. She'd lain awake countless nights, cataloguing everything she wished they'd had, and berating herself for not thinking of dehydrated foodstuffs, or first aid supplies, or even decent hiking boots. And she'd swore, one endless night as she lay curled against the cramps of an empty stomach, that if she ever had it to do over again, she'd do it right.

She didn't quite dare to defy the northlands to do their worst, but she was feeling unconscionably smug about the situation. This deserved chocolate; room service promptly delivered a flourless gâteau. (Kingsley was always very good about not-asking for the details of her incidentals when she submitted expense claims. She rather thought he was still hoping to get into her knickers.) She'd just settled into her bath with the cake and a fork when her mobile chimed.

"Is this Missus Weasley?"

"Yes?"

"Hey, Missus Weasley, this is Mark Holowycziuk, got your number from Damien Thibeaux, he said you were looking to charter a bushplane out of Peawanuck?"

It took her brain a few moments to click into gear, "Oh. From a fellow from Geography?"

"Yeah, prof at Ryerson, take him fishin' all the time. Gave me your number, said you wanted a plane?"

"Yes, yes, that's right. I'm in Toronto, now, I need to get up to a place near Sutton Narrows."

"Yep. So you wanna get up to Timmins, catch an Air Creebec regional up to Peawanuck, that's the Weenusk Indian reserve. I've got a little Murphy Rebel up there in storage, use it for quick jumps in the summer. I reckon I could meet you up there, I was planning a run this week anyhow, get in and out before the snow sets in, y'know. I can give you a lift out onto Sutton, no problem. If the weather holds clear, I'll pick you back up, too."

"That sounds splendid, Mr., er, sorry I didn't catch your name?"

"Holowycziuk. But just Mark's good. I'll see you up there, then? You get into Peawanuck tomorrow afternoon, I'll skip you right over, otherwise we'll go first thing in the morning, eh? It's cash up front, sounds good?"

"That's just fine," she ended the call, and smirked.

Snape probably thought he was doing a good job of hiding not-quite-in-plain-sight. After all, how likely was it that someone from Wizarding Britain would find themselves in Canada, and actually recognise him in a Muggle newspaper? Improbable. Not impossible, she'd demonstrated that, but highly improbable. Add to those odds the likelihood of that person being a witch capable and competent enough to move through the Muggle world? The gods of probability, having apparently been hard at work in the Shrieking Shack, were no longer on Snape's side.

The gâteau was very, very good.

* * *

The nine-passenger regional spiralled down out of the leaden sky, gaining on a thick, foreboding carpet of conifers. So this was Peawanuck. Where?

The plane's wing slanted down, and she caught sight of a cluster of self-same rectangular houses as they angled north again. Her pounding heart nearly choked her when she realized the rapidly approaching landing strip was little better than a triple wide gravel road.

She didn't think anyone noticed her aborted yelp of panic, or the way she'd drawn her knees up to her chest as the wheels jounced down. She straightened in her seat with all the dignity she could muster. She'd faced Death Eaters, and besides, they were on the ground now, alive, and rolling up to the sheet-metal building that apparently constituted a hangar. She meticulously noted the time of her arrival in her logbook, before tucking it back into her bag, where it rested against the manila folder she'd begun to think of as The Snape File. And it was almost an official file – it only lacked the triplicate authorization form, and she didn't have much doubt that little omission could be rectified.

She hefted her new rucksack, and ducked out of the plane. The pilot gestured towards a building that didn't quite pass for a terminal: it was barely larger than a bungalow, sided in wooden slats painted a rusty brown, and trimmed in white. A floodlight above the low, railed step had already been switched on.

Two men were leaning against a black and white police car. A uniformed officer, the shorter of the two, waved her over, and the taller man turned, saw her, and copied the greeting. "You must be Missus Weasley? Hey, I'm Mark, see you made it up here, finally!"

"Yes, there was some delay in Timmins."

"Yeah, mechanical, we got the call from Creebec, they told us you were coming in late. Pete here, the Constable, I mean, he'll give you a lift up into town," he hooked a thumb in the officer's direction.

"It didn't look like much of a town, actually. I think I'd really just rather go on to Sutton Narrows this afternoon, if it's the same to you."

He was shaking his head before she'd even finished. "Lady, there's not even a half hour of decent light left today, and you're outta your mind if you think I'm setting a puddlejumper down on Sutton after dark. You think Peawanuck's the capital of bumfuck nowhere? Wait'll you see Sutton. It's just rocks and trees. Fuck all else. For hun'erds and hun'erds of miles. Literally. Hun'erds."

"Besides," the officer put in, "the pressure's been dropping, probably snow a bit tonight. Wouldn't want you flying back in any kind of weather, Mark, if you don't have to. Listen, Mrs. Weasley, was it? Maggie Gull runs a bed & breakfast, we can get you set up there for the night."

"Or we'll set you up with an air bed here, that's what I'm doing. There's some space for Ministry of Transportation workers, pilots. We can leave early that way, because Lord, but you can't get out of town fast, everyone wants to talk your ear off. "

"True enough," the constable agreed, "Well, I'll let you get back to it, then, Mark. I'll send that nephew of mine around to help you get your plane loaded up this evening."

Holowycziuk was leading her into the building, pointing out the lav, the waiting room, and the door to the garage. He hauled an inflatable airbed down from a cabinet, and passed her the foot pump. This was apparently a very do-it-yourself-y place. That was fine. "What did he mean," she asked, between pumps, "About loading your plane?"

"Hah, yeah, bushpilot trick. I came in with my deHavilland, but we'll go out to Sutton with the old Murphy Rebel, she's a box-kit plane, and I keep the floats on. Spent most of the afternoon checking her over. Anywho, we'll get her loaded on a flatbed trailer; get up to speed with a truck haul, and lift straight off from there instead of dragging her into the river and doing a wet take off."

She tried to picture it, and failed. He seemed about her age, perhaps a touch older – it was hard to tell; his dirty blonde hair had some gray in it, but his shoulders were broad and muscled. Regardless of his age, his casual tone suggested he knew what he was doing, so she supposed she'd have to trust to cushioning charms if things went badly. Or midair apparition.

She decided to play least-underfoot while he did unspecified mechanical things, although she did brave the brisk evening wind to watch them winch the plane up onto a trailer. Arthur would've appreciated their brand of ingenuity, she rather thought.

Holowycziuk had heated microwave dinners for them in the tiny staff kitchen; they retreated to the mechanical bay to consume them. Stained card tables, mismatched chairs, and the pong of used oil were apparently key habitat requirements for the elusive Great Northern Bushpilot. He routed her a can of beer, and a glass. This apparently meant that they were going to be best mates forever: he kicked his chair back, put his feet on the table, and began with the questions. "So how long're you out there?"

"I really don't know, it sort of depends on several factors."

"Uh, lady, Missus Weasley, look, I don't mean to tell you what's what, but she's awful lonely out there. I'm not sure I'm comfortable just leaving you there."

"No need to worry, Mr. Holowycziuk. Mark." She smiled, and hoped it seemed sincere, "I'm planning to meet up with someone who lives out at Sutton Narrows, you see."

"At Sutton Narrows? Pass me a hit of whatever you're smokin', 'cuz ain't no one living out _there_." He cracked the top on another can of beer, and ceremonially refilled his glass. "Unless…Hang on just one hot second, you must mean Sutton Lake itself, up on the northeast shore? You're one of his geology nutjobs, aren't you." He was peering at her intently, "Up looking for Prince, eh? He know you're coming?"

"Er, yes. He was one of my professors."

"Hrmm. Well, he's a fellow likes his solitude; the usual rockhounds don't come up here looking for him until springtime. Bring 'em up sometimes when I drop off his summer supplies. And I can't remember the last time we had any of you Brits out here, not for damn near a decade, I don't think."

"Do you know Professor Prince well, then?" She dangled a baited hook, and wondered what would emerge from the amber depths of this bushpilot's pint glass.

"Gotta be fifteen years, now, I guess. Better'n that, maybe. My little brother first started skipping him around, looking at outcrops up north of Windigo Lake. Mikey pitched over watering up while the boys was fighting a blaze, just outside of Timmins about seven, eight years ago, - stupid thing, how it happened, this big old Sikorsky, only private one up this neck of the woods, eh, and boy did she crumble – anywho, he busted himself up real good, so I've been playing taxicab for that snarly bastard since then. Drop him and his equipment off out in the backbeyond, pick 'im up a couple weeks later. All damn summer, what little there is of it. God only knows what he's actually looking for, mapping dead fault lines, he says. Mikey thinks maybe it's kimberlite tubes. Could be, I guess. I don't know shit about the rocks around here. 'Cept they're bad news when you're hun'erds of feet up in a tin can."

The door leading back into the terminal proper swung open as she was contemplating this intelligence.

"Hey White-Eyes. Look at you all cozy and lazy. Thought you weren't coming up here again 'til it snows." The speaker was a stout native man, with hanks of steely gray hair peeking from beneath a knitted hat, and bright beetle-black eyes that took her in with a question.

Holowycziuk gestured at her, "Lady here's going out to Sutton Lake in the morning. You got time for a game of rummy, Roy? Or you just want your outboard?"

"If you'll go for a buck a point, sure, I got no hurry. Sihkosiw's got the truck anyway, I just come in from the trapline, heard you were back. Dave's gonna tell him to bring the truck around when they get done hauling wood up for Maggie."

"Weren't they doing that the last time I was up here?"

"Well, yeah, but the boys went out, got a couple moose in between. Dry cow and a nice bull, young one, lots of fat on him. Gonna be a hard winter. You got one of those beers for me?" He had shed his quilted plaid jacket and straddled a chair as Holowycziuk dealt from a grimy pack of cards.

She'd demurred when he tried to deal her in, and merely watched them. They fought furiously against accumulating points, all the while desultorily discussing the mating habits of moose, the fishing on the Winisk River, and whether or not the Maple Leafs had a chance at the Stanley Cup this year. The answer, apparently, was no. They seemed to be the Chudley Cannons of professional hockey.

These riveting conversational gambits exhausted, Roy turned to her: "So what're you doing up Sutton then?"

"She's chasing after that geologist, Prince."

He gave her a long, searching look. "White Eyes. Crazy, all of you. Him more than most."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Something wrong with a man, wants to stay out in the winter. People go funny in the head, they stay by themselves."

"Ah, he's alright, just sorta anti-social," Holowycziuk put in.

"My old uncle, he used to tell stories." Roy stubbed a cigarette into the ashtray. "Sometimes, you find a man stays out in the winter too long, turns out he's got hair on his heart. Something you don't talk about."

What the hell did _that_ mean? She frowned.

"Hairy Hearts? You believe that stuff, Roy? Aren't they supposed to be like w—"

"Don't use that word. You don't talk about them ones this time of year, not after the sun's down. Not even if you got some smudge.

Here, rummy, count 'em up, White Eyes!" He tossed his cards on the table, "All I'm saying is if I'm out that way in the winter and my skidoo dies, I walk a long ways before I go up to that place. That's all. You tally 'em up, I bet you owe me 30 bucks, or cig'rettes if you got 'em. Me, I'm gonna go see if Dave hears anything from Sihkosiw, he should be here by now."

Holowycziuk tossed an empty beer can in the general direction of an overflowing crate. "Don't let Roy wind you up, eh, Missus Weasley. You can run across some funny ideas out here."

* * *

The next morning there was a skiff of snow swirling across the thinly iced puddles dotting the margin of the landing strip, and a bank of heavy, ominous fog rose up from the river, obscuring the tufty black spruce along its bank. Holowycziuk kept eyeing the fog and muttering, as he did his final check on the plane, and unstrapped the ratchet tie-downs. Finally he beckoned her over, and relieved her of the rucksack, which he pitched into the sideways-facing seat behind the co-pilots'. "You're up front," he informed her, extending a hand to help her up to the bed of the trailer. She managed to get a leg up into the cockpit, and he boosted her the rest of the way, his hands perhaps lingering on her arse longer than strictly necessary.

One of the locals arrived on an all-terrain vehicle; probably Roy from the night before, unless those quilted jackets were the local mode of fashion. Holowycziuk hailed him, and hopped down to discuss their takeoff, arms describing wide gestures that didn't instill as much confidence as his calm manner the evening before had. Still talking, they retreated back into the hangar.

A long fifteen minutes passed; she unbuckled, and dug her map out of her pack. She traced a finger along the heaviest of the lines, linking Peawanuck to what was apparently Snape's home base on the shore of the long, blue finger Holowycziuk had identified as Sutton Lake. A subsidiary network of lines emanated from Snape's cluster; he seemed to be perched like a spider amongst them. Some were shorter, meandering along the topography, or following the shore of the lake, or little creeks. Others, though, were the straight, decisive lines of flight, projecting out and away from the lake. Holowycziuk 'playing taxicab' in the summer months? She wondered what he was interested in, at the dispersed sites the lines connected. Each seemed to be a lake, which made sense with the float plane; from there, he appeared to wander about topographic highs – rocky hills, like the ones rising to the south? – just as if he were the ruddy geologist he'd apparently been passing himself off as.

She couldn't imagine a reality in which rock collecting was legitimately one of Severus Snape's hobbies.

"Aright, Missus Weasley, we're sure gonna try 'er this morning." Holowycziuk was back, a travel mug of coffee clutched in his hand. "Still lots of fog; if I can't set 'er down safe on Sutton, we'll circle 'round some, eh, cruise for caribou maybe, or just come back here 'til she lifts off. Usually this'll break up good 'round 10:00, once the sun's up real nice.

It should be a little less than half an hour to fly out there; Sutton's about 45 miles east of here. Murph here can get up to 120 miles an hour, not that I like to push the old girl that much." He patted the control panel affectionately, like a favourite pet, "Usually a heavy fog like this lifts up all together, like a cloud, just kinda hangs 20, mebbe 30, feet up above the water for a while. That's alright, that's just enough space to put down, but taking off again can get a little hairy, up through the trees. Sutton's a big lake, though."

She wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure her, or himself, but he'd obviously made up his mind. He passed her a headset. She adjusted the muffs around her ears as he fired up the engine. Soon, the truck was towing them down the runway, gathering speed. Holowycziuk began flipping controls. As the trees at the end began to seem far too close for comfort, she realised the ground was falling away.

"Aaaaand we're up. YPO, this is Murphy Rebel, we're gaining altitude on a south heading, gonna wing 'er up around east, just as soon as we get over the cutline road down to the south Winisk boat launch, copy?"

"Murphy Rebel, we copy. And you know, we have an entire book with takeoff procedures in it. If you ever want some professional development, eh."

"YPO, I got a real good idea where you can stick your book. See you later."

The plane dipped, and she could see the Winisk River stretching south, looping back on itself like a lazy snake, its oxbows, islands and sandbars disappearing into the horizon. Holowycziuk began to nurse his coffee, and seemed disinclined to talk at the moment. She leaned to peer out the window instead. The thick, coniferous carpet rolling away beneath them was broken by rocky massifs, their faces worn down by ancient glaciers. Soon, they were winging above what seemed to be fenlands, and dismal black pools of water tightly ringed by spruce sentinels.

"Coming up over a big stretch of muskeg now," Holowycziuk set his coffee mug aside, and began to spiral the plane down.

"A stretch of _what?_ "

"Muskeg. Deep, nasty peat bogs, fens. Sometimes when you're walking down in places like that, you think you're come up on some kind of meadow, but there'll be these dead old matchstick swamp spruce stickin' up out of 'em. Drowned. And then the moss and the grass comes in, covers 'em over. But it's a lake un'erneath, or a pond, like. And you put too much weight on it and down she goes. They get into trouble, south of here, building winter roads through the 'kegs. Lose some equipment that way every year, gettin' started before she's froze up good."

What a grim, bleak sort of landscape.

It made a weird kind of sense that Snape would turn up in a place like this.

He swung the plane idly around in a circle, peering down at the swampland. "Thought I'd do a pass, see if I can spot any moose. Best way, though, is to just come out in an argo. It's a kind of ATV, you can float 'em down the river. Good way to get through the 'kegs. Can't do much 'cept spotting from old Murph anyhow. A Piper, or something, then you could maybe take off from one of those little open 'kegs, but Murph needs more space to get up in the air again," his tone was regretful, and he patted the panel again. "Done 'er from some of the big ones, little bit south of here."

"Is that Sutton Lake, up ahead, then?" She pointed at the silvery sheen of the elongated waterbody they were approaching.

"Yep, called'er. We're coming up on the ridge, now, gonna circle east over the Narrows, come back around in from the south. Gives me a nice stretch for landing."

"Hmm. It almost looks like a dammed-up river."

"It is, sort of. At the Narrows, right down here. And there's beaverdams in all the 'kegs, kinda keeps the water level up on the ridge. She drains down through the Narrows into Hawley Lake, and then Sutton River sorta meanders down to Hudson Bay. Good fishing, brook trout 'specially." He'd been adjusting the controls, and they were gliding down towards the glimmering surface.

"I'm gonna set her down close up to Prince's place, get you right up to shore, or nearabouts. Once I shut the engine off, you're gonna hop out. You can get down onto the float, and hit the water from there. She's shallow enough; knee deep at the most. You can tell I've done this a time or two." While he'd been issuing these instructions, they'd skimmed down; she barely noticed the gentle resistance as the twin floats unzipped the water in a delicate, arching spray.

"Wish he'd get ambitious and put in a dock, it'd make this easier. But no dice."

'No dice' indeed. She eyed the muddy shore with disfavour. The plane's engine purred down, and she pulled off her headset. The crunch of gravel against steel was loud in the sudden quiet.

"Alright!" Holowycziuk gave her a thumbs-up. "Have a nice vacation, eh? I still don't feel right just abandoning you, Missus Weasley." There wasn't any way to explain apparating to a Muggle, so she said nothing. After a long moment he continued: "He's got a radio, tho. You just call into Peawanuck when you need a pickup. Someone'll hook you up. In the meantime, in between time, I'll get you to give me a hand getting Murph spun around, ok?"

She shrugged, nodded, and clambered down out of the cockpit. There was nothing else for it: she stepped resolutely into the icy water. Holowycziuk passed across her pack, and she heaved it up onto the shore.

"Ok, now get yourself over on the left wing, and shove from behind," he yelled, "and when I give you a wave, you go on and get yourself out of the water."

Her breath was coming in short gasps by the time Holowycziuk had fired up the engine again. She pulled off her soaking trainers and socks as the plane began to accelerate away. She waved a long time, well after she was certain he could no longer see her. Finally, with a distant roar, the little Rebel lifted off the lake, and cleared the treetops. She lowered her arm, feeling faintly foolish, and stripped out of her wet denims.

By the time she'd dressed, and laced up her boots, her vague feelings of disquiet had abated. It was quiet here, lonely was the adjective he'd used, but it was also soothing, with the wind soughing through the trees, accompanied by the rhythmic lap of waves breaking against the shore. She hoisted her rucksack up onto her shoulders, cinched the strap about her hips, checked that her wand was handy, and took a deep breath.

God as her witness, she was Hermione Granger-Weasley, and she was on a mission.

The shoreline was well-pocked by footprints, and long gouges where a boat had been launched. She easily found where isolated prints coalesced into a heavily used path, disappearing back into the leafless scrub and dense, looming spruce. She pushed her way past the whippy branches that grappled with her legs. A loud, high-pitched rattling sound jarred through the stillness; she clutched her wand and scanned the ranked trees.

A squirrel. She sighed with relief, and tucked her wand back up her sleeve. Next she'd be jumping at shadows. The bushy-tailed rodent screamed again, his odd chattering alarm like a tiny machine gun dosed with helium. She grinned, faintly, and pressed on. The path was well worn, a consistent trench running between the tree boles, and grown in with moss and grasses. It spoke of many years of use, although not at a rate that would've denuded it of groundcover. The squirrel's agitation increased as she walked beneath its perch. She flipped it the bird, and carried on.

A faint, steady _tock_ -ing sound carried above the distant echoes of the squirrel's indignant scolding, growing louder as she ascended the path. She recognized it as the heavy thud of an axe when a trace of wood-smoke began to tease her nose. She could see a clearing ahead, glowing with late morning light that fell through the last remnants of the fog.

And in the clearing, Snape. Sweat glistened across his naked back, highlighting the play of lean muscles as he wrenched the axe head out of a stump. He bent to retrieve another log. His faded denims were snug, the waistband darkened with sweat. He had a nice arse, a part of her brain noted with detachment. He adjusted the log so that it stood upright, stepped back, and swung the axe down once more. The split pieces fell away. Her mouth was dry. She moistened her lips, swallowed.

A grey mound of fur heaved up from beside the woodpile, and revealed itself as a wolfish dog. Its lips were pulled back in a snarl, and unlike its master, it seemed entirely aware that she was standing at the top of the path. Snape leaned the axe against the stump, and turned, following the dog's gaze.

"Well, fuck," he said, shaking his head.

She took a step forward. The dogs' snarl became audible.

"I wouldn't, if I were you, Granger. I really, really, wouldn't." His eyes were narrowed, and he'd raised an admonishing finger, just as if she were a misbehaving schoolgirl.

"Wouldn't what?"

"Try anything with that wand up your sleeve. In fact, if you so much as _think_ about casting anything, I confess I shall be obliged to axe-murder you." He swung said implement casually up to his shoulder, and turned away from her to retrieve his shirt off the woodpile. She watched dumbly as he sauntered up to a cabin tucked back under the trees. At the front step, he turned back, cast his gaze to the heavens, and visibly sighed, "Are you coming up, or are you just going to stand there all day?"

The wolfish dog was still staring at her intently, tail erect. "Bella!" Snape called. The dog's tail drooped, and it, she?, reluctantly turned away and slowly followed her master up to the rough patio. He snapped his fingers, gestured left of the door, and she flopped down, tongue lolling in a canine yawn. "Come, Granger, the dog's harmless. Relatively speaking."

"But are you?" she muttered, as she picked her way over exposed tree roots. She supposed she would find out – that's what she was here for, right?


	3. Tea and a constitutional stroll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It bears mentioning that this chapter includes some violence, and that authors do not necessarily condone what they write

She gave the dog a leery glance; it was returned as a steady gaze. She thought she recalled reading that dogs didn’t like meeting people’s eyes, that it was a show of dominance. Was she being put in her place?

“Your dog has creepy eyes.” They were obviously mismatched, one honey-brown, and the other a translucent blue.

“And you have awful hair, but let’s try to be civil, shall we? Hush, Bel, quiet or I won’t let you inside tonight.” He pushed the dog’s head aside with the toe of one foot. This was apparently an invitation to play, as her attention was summarily consumed with trying to pin his foot beneath her paws.

Awful hair. Well, the hypocrisy was undiluted Snape, that much was certain. She eyed his braids. It was a strange look for him, although hardly as odd as the symbols carved around the door and window frames, up along the support beams, and spiralling around the exposed lengths of the heavy log rafters and joists peeking out from the roof. They weren’t runes, but they definitely had a rhythm to them. Invocations of some sort? She didn’t sense any magical energy associated with them, but there was something subtly off nonetheless. Perhaps that was just it – the complete absence of magic. She couldn’t sense the slightest tingle, and Snape didn’t seem to have a wand on him. Of course, he was inarguably proficient in wandless magic, but she didn’t think he’d been doing that, either. There was no magical residue anywhere, no sense of even the simplest of spells lingering. She’d expected it, based on her deductions, but it was still bizarre.

When she moved to step up on the wooden deck, he flung out a hand to halt her. “Hold a moment, there are some hexes on the threshold, and I imagine you look better with a face than without one.” He unlatched the door, and beckoned her forward.

“Quickly, now.” He shooed her into the cabin, and, grasping the bulk of her rucksack, spun her about-face towards the lintel. “You have about twenty seconds to read the words aloud.”

“ _Quando omni flunkus moritati_?” They were haphazardly scrawled above the doorway.

“Very loosely translated, ‘when all else fails, play dead.’ Life advice, if you will. Although at the time I just thought it was hilarious. I was rather intoxicated.” He shrugged. 

“Loosely translated? That’s not even real Latin.”

“Well, I had the finest Wizarding education abject poverty could buy a person, didn’t I? Somehow Filius never did get around to conjugation and declension. I don’t suppose he’s even still alive?”

“He is, actually.”

“Excellent. I try not to speak ill of the dead these days, and I hadn’t quite run out of Flitwick-flavoured invective.”

His nonchalant manner was entirely disconcerting; they might’ve been old friends meeting on the Hogsmeade High Street. She half-expected him to make a casual offer of tea.

“Cup of tea, Granger?”

“We all thought you were dead.”

“Well, that’s certainly a non sequitur,” he opined. “Reports, my death, exaggerated.”

“I _saw_ you die.” Her voice was edging up into hysteria.

“Congratulations, I suppose. Good for you. But did you want tea?” 

She scrubbed at her eyes, and ran her fingers up through her hair, pulling at the tangles. “Yes, tea would be lovely, thank you.” When all laws of rationality collapsed, there were always good manners to fall back upon.

“Have a seat, and pass me that hob-eye lift, would you?” He gestured in the direction of a plain bench tucked up beside a simple square table. It had a stack of books, a messy sheaf of papers, and several rolled maps littering its surface. A hob-eye lift was apparently the cast iron handle-like tool resting on the corner. She passed it over; he took it wordlessly, and turned to the squat black stove. She watched as he rattled the tool into a slot in one of the plates of the hob, and lifted it over so that the firebox was exposed from above. He busied himself with stirring up the coals, and adding several pieces of finely-split wood from a basket on the floor.

His practised actions reinforced the deep incongruity she felt. All the fireplaces at Hogwarts had been magically lit; sure, they’d tossed on an occasional log, but the house-elves did the work. A vivid mental picture of Arthur playing with matches at the Quidditch World Cup swam across her mind’s eye. It was the last –- perhaps the _only_ \-- time she’d seen a fire tended the Muggle way. Snape had indeed gone Muggle, and he’d done it with a vengeance. This wasn’t just Muggle, a part of the same comfortable world as her parents' flat. This was practically prehistoric.

She gazed around the spare cabin, searching for some clue that would refute this hypothesis. There were wooden shelves along one entire wall, heaped up with books, several lanterns, and sundry implements of a primitive existence. Cast iron cookware hung from pegs near the stove, and a large galvanized washtub stood in one corner. Near the door, there were several fishing poles leaned up against a rack of firearms, and a nearby shelf was heaped with boxes of cartridges. Several vicious-looking steel traps hung beneath it. The windows were paned with a thick semi-transparent plastic, and there were heavy wooden shutters that could be bolted from the inside. The door, too, seemed rather more reinforced than strictly necessary. This was, for all intents and purposes, a Last-Man-on-Earth redoubt. 

And what the bloody hell had those quasi-Latin words been about? And those strange symbols outside?

“That _quando omni_ thing you had me say, are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

He arched an eyebrow at her as he poured boiling water into a heavy, chipped teapot. “No, I don’t think I shall. Your clearance isn’t high enough.”

Clearance? What, in his Army of Complete Nutters?

He’d read something in her expression, because he sighed as he passed her a blue enamelled mug. He relented: “It’s the passcode to the set of security wards I’ve erected. The words are meaningless, there just needs to be some vocalized phrase, the physical representation of which is embedded in the structure itself.” Which all sounded perfectly logical, except that she hadn’t felt anything like wards. 

“And that reminds me…” He trailed off as he poured their tea.

“Is there any sugar?”

“Yes. I’ll trade you: sugar for your wand.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Quite simply, I’m asking you to surrender your wand for the duration of your hopefully-brief stay. When is Holowycziuk coming back for you, by the way?”

“I have no intention of giving you my wand, do you think I’m insane?”

“I think you’re going to be very sorry if you don’t, because I shall be forced to turn you out, and don’t think I won’t set the dog on you.”

“ _Why_ , for Christ’s sake?”

“Because a wand, when it’s in use, positively reeks of magic. Even idle, there’s a low-level vibration. And I am at present exceedingly uninterested in experiencing the sort of attention that will engender.”

“Enough people already know you’re here – I talked to Lefebvre already, she’s with the Office –“

“Granger, don’t argue with me. Either give me your wand, or you’re spending the night outside. Well away from here. I don’t particularly think you’ll enjoy it, but who knows, perhaps you have a suicidal bent.”

She needed her own head examined, because she was actually considering passing her wand over to someone who seemed just a few shy. “And when I want it back?”

“You can have it back when you leave. This is a security precaution, Granger, not a power trip.”

Actually, it appeared to be both. Still, what choice did she really have? There was no sense alienating him straight away, and she could perform a wandless _Accio_ if she needed to. “Fine.” She felt a momentary pang as the vine wood left her hand. “But you’re going to have to explain yourself.”

“I don’t see where I’m in any way obligated to do so. You’re the one trespassing on _my_ forbearance, after all.” He tipped up the lid of the battered strongbox at the end of the solitary bed, and extracted what looked to be a metal cash box. She tried but couldn’t see the combination he dialed on the lock.

“Did you ever wonder why lead is never used in cauldrons, Granger?”

“Er, no?”

“My apologies, I should’ve phrased that differently. Class, can any of you dunderheads explain why lead is prohibited in the subtle science and exact art of potion-making? Go on, raise your hand.” He laid her wand inside the case. There were several others. “What, finally something you don’t have an answer for? Pity, because it’s quite simple: first, lead poisoning is unpleasant for everyone involved, and I don’t just mean the Wizengamot inquisition. Secondly, it interferes with magical energies. I’ve lined this case with lead sheet, just so you know. In case you were planning anything stupid.” He snapped it closed, returned it to the strongbox, and set a bowl of sugar on the table in front of her.

She mechanically added a teaspoon to her tea. People didn’t have to be exactly sane to be perfectly logical, she supposed. He didn’t _seem_ dangerous; his tone thus far had only been lightly mocking. But then, it was also true that only cartoon villains were given to sinister cackles. And facts were facts: first, he’d quite obviously lived through the War; second, perfectly innocent people simply did not hide themselves away in the wilds of northern Canada if they had a reasonable expectation of reprieve for past actions – which, if Harry’s version of things was correct, Snape certainly should have. This situation reeked like a fishmarket. She studied him over the rim of her cup, and wondered if she’d sense an _Obliviate_ before it came. A pre-emptive strike might be in order: simply stun him, then melt the box open; a targeted wandless blasting hex was well within her capabilities.

“So when is Holowycziuk coming back?”

“How did you know he brought me here?”

“Because I heard the plane come in? I’m not deaf, and sound carries, especially in the morning. I was hoping he’d brought up some books I’ve been waiting on; he didn’t send them with you, by chance?”

She shook her head.

“Alas, no silver lining. Thus demonstrating that cynicism is a perfectly rational response to reality. Do you know, you’re not very good at this answering-questions business anymore. For the third time, when is he coming to pick you up?”

She took another sip of tea before answering, “He isn’t. My intention is to find out what the hell you’re playing at, and then apparate back to Ottawa.”

He massaged the furrow in his brow with two fingers, and exhaled slowly. “Lord love a duck. If that’s a plan, find me a skirt, because I’m the Queen of Sheba. Right, well the absolute first order of business is to get you gone, fastest. _Not_ by apparating,” he pre-empted her. “I won’t have you doing any magic within a fifty kilometer radius of this place.”

She pursed her lips. Utterly paranoid. She was _already here_ , how did he imagine he was going to remain in hiding? He _must_ be planning to wipe her memory.

He was staring fixedly at her feet. “I suppose you’ve already done, though. Just a quick drying charm, eh?”

“No, I changed out of my wet things; speaking of, can I hang my denims up somewhere to dry?”

“Answer me first: any spells at all since you arrived?”

She really ought to point out how foolish he was being; Lefebvre knew exactly where he was, and by Monday afternoon, Tuesday latest, she’d have paperwork in hand, with all the boxes ticked for permission to initiate surveillance. “No, but I don’t see what difference –“

“Well thank heavens for small mercies. Here, pass me your things.” 

She dug the bundle of wet clothes from the top of her pack and handed them to him. He draped her trousers across a line behind the stove, and clipped a wooden clothespin over each sock. Finally, he knotted her shoelaces together before suspending her trainers over the line as well. 

“So this is really how you choose to live, then?”

“Yes. More by necessity than by choice.”

“ _Why_? What in God’s name are you doing out here?”

“Horrendous, unspeakable things,” he answered mildly. “I want you to recognize, Granger, that I am in absolute deadly earnest about not doing any magic.”

“And yet you tell me there are wards on this place.”

“It’s not the same kind of thing at all.”

Which made no sense whatsoever. Magic was magic, and she hadn’t felt a damn thing. If someone as brilliant as Snape went ‘round the twist, what form might madness take? Imagining you were engaging in some new type of untraceable magic might qualify. And besides, his paranoid logic had a break in it: “Honestly, for someone as obsessed with security as you seem to be,” she needled, “don’t you think it was a bit foolhardy to just invite me into your home?” 

He rolled his eyes. “That’s the point of a _vocalized_ passcode. While there are several spells that can be used to transfigure or otherwise modify the appearance of a sentient magical creature, none of them permit faithful replication of human speech.”

She twisted a lip and chewed thoughtfully at it. That much was true, at least. Bathilda the Snake-zombie had only been able to communicate with Harry through Parseltongue. Alright, but, “What about _were_ -plexus infections, then?” Counter that, smartass.

“I rely upon superior cunning, my vast intellect, and a Winchester .338. I’m fairly certain a hollow-point round would give you pause, if you happen to be infected. And I always did sort of want to meet a werewolf in a fair fight.” He sighed whimsically, “It’s really almost too bad we’re only coming up on the new moon; I won’t get to find out if you are, or not.”

Right. Well, that did not go a terribly long ways towards reassuring her of his relative sanity. “I’m not. Infected, I mean. Just pointing out a flaw in your security detail.” 

“Ah. Well in that case, you’ve forgotten the dog.”

It was eyeing her through the open door. It had been the entire time.

“And what does your dog have to do with anything?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Around here, they call them ghost-eye or crazy-eye dogs. Or woolly huskies, I suppose, if you’re curious as to what she actually is. The eye condition you noted is a genetic mutation, heterochromia iridum. Some people think they bring bad luck, or that they can see into the spirit world. I don’t happen to believe there is a spirit world, but I have noticed she’s got a nose for magic. Plenty of animals do. And I know for a fact that she knows when someone is infected with a _were_ -virus.”

“Thought you just said you’d never met a werewolf in a fair fight.”

“Werewolves, no, unless you count cracking Remus Lupin with a barstool that once. Werebears, though, I ran into one of _those_ a few years back. Bella pitched one hell of a bitch over him.”

Were- _bears_? She supposed it was possible, the family of viruses was notorious for jumping species boundaries. But how or why would Snape, with his anti-magic paranoia, have come in contact with such a person? In a “fair fight”, whatever that was? Was he casually shooting anyone that his dog took a dislike to? She ought to stun him, get her wand, and apparate the both of them back to civilisation. Enough of this.

“But this is all academic, and as much as I enjoy a good argument, it frankly matters not a whit to me whether you think my security is up to snuff. My priority right now is divesting myself of your unwelcome company as soon as possible.”

“Then give me back my wand, and I’ll happily disappear.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and vented a sigh. “Granger—“

“Granger-Weasley.”

“Oh, well that explains why your IQ seems to have suffered such a profound decline. Your sense of hearing ought to still be intact, though. Absolutely. No. Magic.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake. I was trying to say earlier, your cover’s already blown, I told you I talked to Lefebvre; she’s the RCMP liaison for the Office of Magical Affairs.”

“Short, skinny as a rail, plum-coloured hair, runs on at the mouth?”

“That’s her.”

“Lefebvre’s a nuisance, a parasitic pain in the arse, but not much more than that. If she pokes too hard at the wrong files, the Bureau of Mysteries will just pull some strings and reassign her attention elsewhere. I’m not much fussed. Sorry to disappoint, but you’ll have to do better than that if you want to seriously inconvenience me. Although, to be fair, actually showing up here was a damnably good start in that direction,” he admitted. 

“Bureau of Mysteries? _What_ Bureau of Mysteries?”

“The one affiliated with the Office of Magical Affairs. Which happens to be part of a collaborative network across the Commonwealth.”

“Really. I find it hard to believe I wouldn’t have heard of such a thing.” It was such a _good_ fabrication she could almost admire it – he’d thought through the angles, it was something people would be likely to believe. Sorry mate, can’t tell you anything, Unspeakable, you know. Clearly, the best way to get answers out of him was going to be a stunner, an apparition, and a round of Veritaserum.

“As I said, your security clearance isn’t high enough. Sole Functioning Brain of Hogwarts’ Golden Trio isn’t an actual rank or qualification, you know.” The bastard actually had the audacity to quirk that cold little sneer of his.

“In fact, I’m the Undersecretary for Magical Law Enforcement, thank you very much,” she peeved.

“Still not high enough. Why are you even here, anyway?”

“To find out what you’re up to!” With the help of Veritaserum, if need be.

“What I’m up to is none of your business. If you were on a need-to-know list, you’d know. The fact that you’re here tells me you aren’t. Ergo, you don’t.”

“Given your role in the war—“

“Given _your_ role in the Ministry!” He mocked back. “Frankly, Granger, I’m surprised, Undersecretary isn’t a field position, why’d they let you off your leash?”

“I have ample field experience, I’ve been through a bloody war—“

“Ah, but do you have ample _authorization_? I rather think not. And as far as your vaunted ‘experience’ goes, do you really, truly, believe that you could best me in a wandless match? Or even with one? Where’s the rest of your army, hmm?” He smirked. “Granger, face it: you haven’t _got_ a reason. You like puzzles and you’re bored. You’re bored, so you’ve decided to abandon your responsibilities, and find some poor bastard for whom you can make problems. Tell me, when’s the last time you did anything more energetic than wrestling with a filing cabinet? You’ve been on the hunt for a diversion for ages, haven’t you? And for my sins, I’m it,” he wound down, his lips twisted in an embittered moue.

Why the hell was she even bothering to argue with him? Despite his snarky assertions, she certainly _didn’t_ need an army to manage a stunning spell. She began to visualize the wand pattern, when she noticed Snape was again staring at her. His raised mug dangled loosely from his fingertips, apparently forgotten in midair. His dark eyes flickered left, right, cataloguing something. She watched him breathe in, slowly, and then carefully set his mug down on the table. He intermeshed his spidery fingers beneath his chin.

“In fact, Granger, that all sounds very much like _precisely_ the sort of thing you’d do. It fits my preconceptions of you just perfectly. Do you know what was curious about the dog at midnight?”

“That it didn’t bark?”

A smile cracked across his thin lips, and he glowed suddenly with what seemed to be pure pleasure. “Always so nice to find someone else who’s read Conan Doyle. Yes, indeed, and in this case, the question is, _why didn’t you use a drying charm?_ ” His smile abruptly vanished, and his eyes were cold and bottomless.

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

“You’re a witch. Why not use the charm? It’s an inconsistency. I mislike blatant inconsistencies.”

He surged up, his wooden stool clattering backwards, hands fisting in the collar of her shirt, hauling her up and half-onto the table. She struggled against his grip, as he twisted, tightening the cloth around her neck as he achieved purchase with a single hand. He shoved the other past her flailing arms, up beneath the tail of her shirt; the palm of his hand came to rest on her left breast. Above her heart. There was something calculating and clinical in his eyes, and for a moment she ceased struggling. 

“Congratulations, Granger,” he was breathing rapidly, his face too close to hers, “You’ve been under an _Imperius_ curse. Tell me, this very instant, exactly what you’ve been intending to do. Now, Granger!”

“Let go of me!”

“And when I do? _Tell me_ , Granger!”

“Stun you and haul you back to Ottawa, you lunatic cunt!”

He began to chuckle. “I don’t think so.” He released her, and she fell sprawling back onto the bench.

She rubbed hard at her neck, “What the bloody hell is wrong with you, haven’t you got the faintest concept of personal boundaries? And I think I’d fucking well know if I were under an _Imperius_ curse!”

“Ottawa, are you certain?”

“Or Toronto!” What the fuck was this, Twenty Questions?

“Useless. Well, it’s to be expected, the compulsion is nearly worn off, and wading up from the plane would’ve weakened it further.”

“I’ve not fucking been _Imperius_ ’d!” He was sitting between her and the door; she’d never manage it.

“Language, Granger, and of course you’ve been.” He had flipped open a notebook, and his pen rapidly skimmed across the page. “I don’t make mistakes about these sorts of thing very often. As you can tell by the fact I’m alive. When, exactly, did you decide to seek me out? Give me the chain of causality. Why are you even in Canada?”

“I was over for a security summit, and I _would know_ if I were under _Imperius_ , I’ve had it done to me before, are you forgetting Crouch?”

“And someone at the summit told you I was alive, and where I was?”

“No, I saw your photograph the day after, in the newspaper, and you’re bloody deflecting!”

“Oh, would you stop screeching. Granger, why do you think people are always able to claim they must’ve been under _Imperius_ , and actually get away with it? Why can’t the Wizengamot just dose them with Veritaserum and be done?”

“I… I don’t know. But…” What an interesting question.

“And this is how your DADA professors, barring one exception, failed you miserably. The very best way to use _Imperius_ is lightly; the closer your aim to a person’s natural inclination, the gentler the compulsion can be. A little nudge, instead of a brisk shove, in the direction you want them to go. A light enough touch with a well-chosen target, and the subject might never recognize that they’re no longer acting under their own agency. Veritaserum only compels one to tell the truth _as they know it_. So it’s worthless when a suspect’s own testimony is useless. How do you think Lucius Malfoy got away with that defense, in the first War? He’d never made any secret of his disdain for Muggles, but he was able to convince the Wizengamot that he also wouldn’t have been stupid enough to slaughter them under his own offices, ergo he walked free, a hapless victim of an insidious case of _Imperius_. Now then, you had no inkling of me until you saw a photograph? In a newspaper?”

“In the _Toronto Star_. At a protest.”

“Damn. Well, can’t be helped. And would you normally have purchased and read the _Star_?”

“No. Well, yes, I mean, I wouldn’t have bought the paper, I just picked up an abandoned copy, but I was planning to call Ron, and…” She trailed off, suddenly ashamed.

He huffed a breath of dark laughter. “And you’re normally in want of some reading material when you talk to Weasley. Fine. And what did you do once you’d identified me?”

“Contacted the Office. Floo’d from Pearson, the airport, I mean, over to the Office in Ottawa.”

“And who did you meet with?”

“Rajit Singh, but—“

“Pass by any other wizards? Open office doors?”

“I don’t know. The Office is housed with Muggles, everyone’s in Muggle dress. I expect I did; I could’ve even when I was going to the apparition point afterward -- it’s in the basement of the Library of Parliament –“

“And Singh tracked me down? He shouldn’t have been able to.”

“No, he wouldn’t do it, said he needed authorization. And the surveillance only works if someone’s doing magic.”

“That’s what I thought. Where did you go next?”

“Back into Toronto.”

“Apparate?”

“To the Portkey Authority at Pearson.”

“So you were still using magic once you left Ottawa. Alright.” He scribbled another note, then tapped his pen against his lip, studying the page before him. “And when did you meet with Lefebvre?”

“Directly after that. At a Squib pub near the university.”

He jotted another line, and closed the book briskly. “Finish your tea; we’re going for a walk.” He rose, plucked a coat from a peg near the door, and lifted one of the rifles from the rack. He chambered a round, and gestured for her to precede him out the door. “Back down to the lake. March.”

She stumbled down the path ahead of him, tripping over tree roots, her feet snagging in the brush, tangling in the dead grasses. She pitched over a half-concealed fallen tree, and fell, gashing her palm on one of its broken branches. She screwed her face against the sting and the blood, and pulled the wand patterns back into her mind; this might be her only chance. She tensed her muscles, readying herself to roll and hex. Snape pressed the cold barrel of the rifle between her shoulder blades. “Up, Granger,” he said softly, dripping quiet menace.

She heaved herself to her feet, turned. Looked long and hard at the rifle clutched ready in his hands. Turned back, and staggered the rest of the way down the path.

“Keep going, Granger. No one told you to stop. Right into the water.”

“You’re – you’re mad, utterly insane!”

“Walk, Granger.”

“These boots are brand new!”

“Really?” His tone was suddenly convivial, “’Brand new’ as in purchased in the past 48 hours? _After_ you met with Lefebvre? ”

“Yes!”

“Fine, kick them off. _Then_ get in the water. And cut the backchat.” 

His rifle was still levelled at her. She swallowed hard, and pulled at the laces with clumsy fingers. “And the rest of my things?” Maybe she could draw this out, turn it to her advantage somehow if she had enough time –

“Don’t look particularly fresh-off-the-shelf to me. In you go. _Now, Granger_ ,” he growled.

Drowned at gunpoint in the wilds of northern Canada; what a way for a career-minded witch to go. She splashed in, ankle-deep, knee, thigh. Her feet kept slipping on the algae-covered rocks on the bottom, but soon she was so numbed she couldn’t feel her stubbed toes. 

“That’s far enough. Have a seat, duck your head, and count thirty seconds.”

She tried, she honestly did, but when the frigid water closed over her head she jolted up, sputtering, coughing, and now crying in earnest.

“Try again,” Snape called. His voice was oddly encouraging, almost kind. The rifle didn’t waver.

She came up, gasping for air. It hurt. Everything was hurting from the cold. She couldn’t feel her fingers, her ribs ached. “Again!” And again. And once more, and then finally, when she was beyond tears, when she was certain she could finally just open her mouth and breathe in the tea-coloured lake, and damn everything, at least this would be over, “Come back up, Granger, you’ve done well.”

She lurched upright, but her foot turned on a rock, and she splashed back down. A deep jarring told her she’d landed on something that would leave a bruise, but just now it didn’t hurt too badly. Up again. Too many long, treacherous steps back to shore, her muscles tight with cold and refusing to cooperate. Snape beckoning her on, and, goddamnit, some sick part of her actually revelling in his open smile and outstretched hand. 

He pulled her up the last few steps, and lowered her down to the muddy sand. He pressed his hand over her heart once more, a look of intense concentration furrowing his brow. The warmth of his hand was penetrating, painful against her chilled, wet skin. 

“Good, that’s cleared the last of it from your system. Alright, let’s get you out of these wet things, before you go into hypothermic shock.” 

She fumbled at the buttons on her shirt, but Snape pushed her hands aside, and tackled them himself. 

“Think carefully, when was the last time you performed a spell?”

Think? He expected her to _think_? “Late afternoon, let’s see, day before last. Just before I met with Lefebvre.”

“And would you have had opportunity since?”

“Well, I was around Muggles, mostly.” She pulled her arms from her shirt, shoved her bra off, and hugged herself close. Snape draped his coat across her shoulders.

“But I suppose you would normally use hygienic or cosmetic charms?”

“Well yes, actually. I… I don’t know, I brush my teeth the Muggle way, but I usually do a tooth-whitening charm, and—“

“Yes, fine, but you haven’t lately, despite the fact you have _not_ been inundated with Muggles in your bath.” He was working her soaking pants off her legs; she stretched out, and kicked her way free of the sopping fabric.

“No. That’s… really odd.” The coat seemed long enough to cover her; she drew her knees up to her chest, and under its tent of comparative warmth.

“Lefebvre really is our timestamp, then. And it’s perfectly explicable: the _Imperius_ curse you were under had to have contained both a compulsion to retrieve me, and a stricture against using magic. You’re still used to behaving as a Muggle on occasion, so in some ways you were a perfect fit. Every part of the curse could be lightly applied; you’d adhere without the need for strong compulsion.”

“But that makes no sense, why would it contain a stricture against magic? Especially if you’re right, and the point was to bring you in to Toronto. Or Ottawa. Wherever.”

“Because _someone_ knows that a whiff of magical residue is a very bad idea around here.”

“Well, obviously you’re sensitive to it, but shouldn’t the curse have made me want to sneak up on you, too? I just walked up, I didn’t even think I ought to be quiet about it.” She could feel her toes again, and flexed them in the muddy sand.

“It’s not about me, Granger. Come on, use that brain of yours, it can’t have entirely atrophied. I have excellent reasons for every last thing I do, and keeping my home free of magic is absolutely not exempt from that. And the point is, whoever is behind your curse – maybe not even the person who actually cast it – knows precisely what those reasons are.” He seemed to be studying her minutely, as if she were an interesting biological specimen he was considering adding to a collection. This close scrutiny felt more intimate by far than the ghost impression of his hand over her heart. She glared back. He finally averted his gaze, and held her boots out to her. “If it’s any consolation whatsoever, by my reckoning you’re just a tool. That stricture would seem to imply they don’t intend you to come to any harm.”

“Except pneumonia.”

“Oh, give credit where it’s due. _I’m_ the author of that one. Still feel like stunning me?”

“N-no.” She didn’t. It suddenly seemed like a remarkably poor plan. _Harry_ came up with better plans.

“Very well. I conditionally accept your surrender. Can you manage to walk back up, or do you need me to carry you?”

“I’ll bloody well walk.” She pulled her boots on and rose to her feet. The coat was long enough. All to the good, because she didn’t think her pride could take much more. “Mind you, I’m not saying I believe you, about being under _Imperius_ , but if I _was_ , do you think it was Lefebvre? I didn’t see her do anything.”

“Well she’s one of the few obvious contacts you had. It’s possible. And _Imperius_ can be performed wandlessly and nonverbally. On the balance, I’d be inclined to think not – she never struck me as smart enough, and I can’t see a motivation – but it’s possible I’m underestimating her.”

“You know her personally then?”

“No, merely by reputation, observation, and inconvenience. So I could be wrong.” He was busying himself with the gun, ejecting the bullet from the chamber. 

“Would you really have shot me?”

“Probably. On the whole, I thought you’d be sensible, however.”

“And if the curse was losing its influence, was it strictly necessary to dunk me in the lake?”

“Oh yes. You were obviously still under some compulsion. If you’d turned up yesterday, it probably would’ve been strong enough to do the trick. As it was, there was still enough residue on you that _I_ could sense it. You were a walking liability, even behind my wards. The longer that curse was leaching its residue into my surroundings, the more chance for… Well. Standing water works almost as well as _Finite Incantatem_ , if a spell is already running down. Better safe than sorry.”

“And my clothes?” She had tried wringing the water out of her shirt; ‘mixed success’ was an optimistic descriptor.

“Had likely picked up some residue; I presumed you had them with you when you met Lefebvre.”

“But you just said you thought she wasn’t a likely culprit?”

“Whether she is, or not is irrelevant. That meeting is the timestamp, you have to have been cursed within that window. By her, or by someone else. And any nonverbal spell has a large area of effect, the nimbus touches more than the target organ – which is the heart for _Imperius_ , despite the fact that it’s a mind-controlling spell. Make of that what you will. Chances are, everything you own is contaminated with it.”

“You’re not tossing my pack in the lake! It’s new, I bought everything except these clothes after I talked to her.”

“Where are the rest of your things, then? You didn’t come to a security summit in ratty old denims.”

“I left them in a locker at Pearson, before I flew up here!”

“Fine, then, your pack is safe, calm down. Our next order of business, after you’re dried off and back into some clothes, is to radio YPO. With luck, Holowycziuk will still be there. I want you gone by nightfall.” They’d regained the cabin; he stamped a bit of dirt and bracken from his boots, and re-entered. 

She followed. The dog had looked up at their arrival, but offered no further commentary, just thumped her tail against the boards, and laid her head back down between her paws. Maybe the dog could sense that the spell was gone? She shook her head. It was probably just that she had Snape’s coat wrapped around her.

His peculiar brand of madness was obviously contagious. All things considered, ‘gone by nightfall’ sounded pretty good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you happen to share my predilection for maps: 54°24'31.5'' N, 84°39'37.5'' W.


	4. Afternoons on the lake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the long hiatus; I got distracted by my career, and I've no real idea how long I'll take with the next chapter. This is fully outlined, but writing still takes time, and those of you who are friends on Livejournal know that I'm going through some really hard personal stuff.

Now that he’d thoroughly tortured and humiliated her, Snape seemed to have forgotten she existed. He’d pulled a case from one of the shelves, and was snapping a battery pack into the base of what looked like an overly large, clunky mobile, but was more likely the radio. She plucked at the strand of hair that was presently dripping water down her collarbone, and surveyed her wet clothes with distaste.

“Clothespins are on the line, Granger.” Ah, so she did exist. “I’ll wait outside while you’re changing, and then we need to go up to the ridge to catch a signal.”

“Change? Into what? My _other_ pair of sopping trousers?”

She caught a glimpse of his face doing something odd, but couldn’t decide if it was a grimace or a repressed smirk, he’d turned away so quickly.

“Packed light, did you? You’re an uncommon sort of female.”

“Must you? Must you really?”

He turned back, and appraised her for a long moment, his lips a flat, tight line. “That was unworthy of me. My apologies. Next time I’ll try for something truly cutting. Mustn’t weary our guests with _casual_ sexism.”

Right. This was Snape after all. He’d been poorly socialized _before_ he’d died and become a hermit, what was she expecting?

“You’re not that much shorter than me; what are you, five-six, five-seven?”

“About that, I guess. One-sixty-eight.” What further mockery or indignity now? There was a deep exhaustion creeping over her. Couldn’t she just go home, already? How the bloody _hell_ had someone done this to her, how had she missed it? It was Harry, after all, who was fixated on Snape. She hadn’t really given a toss. Oh, there’d been idle curiosity – he was an intriguing conundrum, and it was sad he’d died (except he obviously hadn’t) – but _she_ certainly hadn’t been the one dragging them around Coketon or Cokeworth, or whatever, breaking into their dead professor’s dingy little house. 

Bringing his clandestine existence to the attention of the Office of Magical Affairs was well within her usual standards – that was just part of the puzzle, and Snape was right, she liked puzzles. But that single-minded sense of purpose should have been a red flag; as clues went, it ought to have been more than sufficient to alert her to… She rubbed at her eyes, uncomfortably aware of that she’d bought into Snape’s _Imperius_ theory on more levels than was apt to be healthy. She didn’t think she was manufacturing evidence, though: hadn’t she felt abruptly out of sorts when she’d watched Holowycziuk’s little plane lifting off the lake – right after she’d been standing in the water? What else had been done to her brain, what other perceptions couldn’t she trust? Was she really free of it now, or —

“Here, these ought to fit.” 

She glanced up. Snape was extending a bundle of cloth towards her: a heavy flannel shirt, woollen socks, and a pair of denims worn soft with age and use. “Until your own things dry out.” 

“Thanks, I suppose.” Although really, it was his paranoia that was the root cause of this. Better results all around if she didn’t mention that, perhaps. Still, “I’ve never heard of water dissipating curses, before.” She held the denims up to her waist; they’d be a bit long, but she could roll the cuffs up. 

“There are plenty of things you probably don’t know; think too deeply on that one and you’ll never have a quiet night’s sleep again. But it isn’t just any water – it has to be quite still in order to disperse the lingering residue of a spell.”

“Any spell?”

“Most of them. It depends on whether it’s winding down or not, whether it’s past the window.”

“Everett’s Effect Window, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“But effect windows are either open or closed, a spell shouldn’t actually ‘wind down’, it’s either active or —“

“Granger. Clothes. Put them on your body, and then we can continue this conversation. Whilst we attempt to contact someone who can remove you posthaste, such that we need _not_ continue this conversation.” He ducked out of the cabin, and pulled the door soundly shut behind himself.

She stripped out of his coat, and surveyed her wet undergarments with dismay. _Here_ was a flaw in her planning: when she’d been on the run with Harry and Ron in the Forest of Dean, at least she’d had more than one bra. Oh well, she’d thought to pack extra skivvies at least; she retrieved a pair from her pack. Snape’s trousers, once she’d hitched them up, fit rather better than she’d expected, not quite embarrassingly tight but definitely trending in that direction. She pulled on the shirt, and wound her wet hair up into a knot, fixing it in place with one of the stray pencils littering his table. Thank heavens he didn’t have a mirror, she could only imagine the spectacle she presented.

It occurred to her, as she was draping her bra over the line, that she was wasting a perfect opportunity to retrieve her wand. He couldn’t really know if she had it with her, could he? If she didn’t use it? The combination on the bankers box, though – there was no way she could get into it without a spell, even assuming she could manage _Alohomora_ wandless on the first try. She crumpled a shirttail between her fingers, a bleak despair rising in the back of her throat. 

This was stupid. He _hadn’t_ harmed her, not really. Not yet. If anything, she should be attributing this sense of violation to whichever faceless, anonymous cunt had interfered with her free will. She took a deep, steadying breath and squared her shoulders. Reframe the issue, that was the trick of it: the problem right now wasn’t that someone had assaulted the sanctity of her mind, it was that she was momentarily stranded in the godforsaken wilds of Canada. With Snape. Who, it had to be said, hadn’t improved with time.

He had seated himself against the cabin wall, and the dog was draped across his lap, clearly content to be the center of his attention. “I talk too much, don’t I, Bella-nitím?” His voice, though quiet, carried over to where she stood in the doorway. He was combing tufts of hair out of the dog’s flank, and feathery wisps of it drifted off on the crisp autumn breeze. “You know, nisîmis, there was a long time when I didn’t talk to anybody. Didn’t want to, I mean. I don’t know when that changed.” 

She bit the inside of her lip, suddenly loathe to intrude. Embarrassing, to see Snape without his armor. The classroom tyrant she’d spent six years of her life trying to impress was still there, driving the mercurial shifts of his temper, flourishing in the casual savageries he’d tossed her way. But who the bloody hell was this recluse, flannel and braids and woodsmoke and quiet conversations with an overgrown rug? She stepped back from the door, closed it softly, and then swung it open with vigour. The clink of the latch swinging free ought to be warning enough to alert him to the necessity of returning to form. Professor Snape she could deal with – if only because Professor Snape had a plan to get her out of here.

He looked up as she approached, and nudged the dog up, “Alright Bel, up you get. Her winter coat’s coming in; I’d be ankle-deep in fur if I didn’t spend half my day brushing this lazy beast out.” He rose, and slapped (rather ineffectively) at the clinging white hairs on his clothing, “Gets bloody _everywhere_.”

That had been insufficiently Snape-y for her needs of the moment. Time to get this back on-track. “Something I’m curious about,” she began, “About effect windows. I mean, always assuming that the metaverse construct for magic is valid, still, we learned windows were binary – they were either open, or not. And a spell lasts just as long as it keeps the window open.”

“That’s the classic model, yes. Funny thing, I am actually literate enough to have read those books, too – Standard Book of Spells, 7th year set text, wasn’t it?” He paused, perhaps to evaluate her response to this sneer. After a moment he continued, his voice falling into a familiar lecturing cadence, “The classic model is wrong, an effect window is best characterized in a modified Bayesian probability framework.”

This was firmer ground. “Go on.”

“You really haven’t read this? What’ve you been doing with your life, I thought your hobby was eating books.”

She vented a long-suffering sigh through her nose, and refused to rise to his bait.

“Fine, fine. It’s a multidimensional probability space but for simplicity’s sake, just think about a standard bell curve, a Gaussian normal distribution.” He stooped to snag a branch off the ground, and sketched a curve in the dirt, “The top of the curve is the maximum likelihood, and the density,” he hatched in the area beneath the curve, “is the probability.”

“I know that. I don’t need a basic maths review.”

“I’m getting there. So the simplest way to think about an effect window is that it occupies this space, here under the majority of the curve – where it’s highly probable that it’s open. And the dimensions of the curve – how tall or wide it is – defines how long a spell lasts. But out here on the tails,” he tapped the edges of the curve that tapered off to nothingness, “there’s still a minute probability that the window remains open. It’s the classic Schrödinger conundrum – the window’s both open and closed depending upon the quantum universe.”

She could feel the frown furrowing her brow. This was _bizarre_ , and yet she could actually follow it, could see how it might work. Except—“But when the curve approaches zero or one, when it flattens out – that’s an infinite line, it never actually _reaches_ either point, just gets infinitely close.”

His quicksilver smile flickered again, there and gone except for the slight scrunching of his eyes that lingered as he assessed her. “Precisely. Entropy. What do you think spell residue actually _is_ , Granger?

“You’re looking a bit pole-axed, there,” he put in helpfully, when she failed to respond.

“It’s… God, it makes sense, it’s…”

“Right. Let’s find out if you can experience the rapturous transports of enlightenment while simultaneously engaged in bipedal locomotion, shall we? We’re on a bit of a schedule, here.” He turned away, tossing the stick in a broad arc. The dog chased off in the direction he’d thrown it, but kept going, disappearing down into the trees. Snape rolled his eyes, shrugged, and ducked back into the cabin.

By the time he’d re-emerged with a paddle and fishing pole, she’d shaken off the stupor of her whirling thoughts. “I thought you were going to radio?”

“And get some fishing in on the way back, yes.”

“The way back from where? You said up on the ridge.”

“Up on the ridge on the other side of the lake. Since I don’t fancy a long, useless hike south, when I’ve a perfectly serviceable canoe and a reasonably warm afternoon that will be better spent fishing than scrambling. Has your demonstrably keen intellect discovered some problem with that agenda that I should be aware of?”

“I was only asking,” she mumbled. Git. It was his classroom all over again, perpetually oscillating between frenetic admiration of his brilliance, and seething resentment of his sarcasm and pettiness.

“Ask fewer questions, walk more. Come along.” He started down the path to the lake, whistling imperiously for the dog, who came crashing through the underbrush, bearing a much larger branch than he’d tossed aside. She looked pleased with herself. Snape sighed. “Yes, thank you, nisîmis, that’s much better than the one I had.”

“What does it mean,” she batted a spruce bough out of her way, “that word you just used?”

“What’d I just say about questions?”

“I was only curious, I didn’t recognize it. I thought your dog’s name was Bella.”

“It is. The word was ‘nisîmis’ – it’s Omushkego, it means ‘little one’ – ‘little sister’ in this context.” He stepped carefully across the deadfall that had attacked her earlier, and held a branch back as she did the same. “And before you ask – yes, I can see you’re bursting to – the Omushkegowak are the local indigenous people. Swampy Cree.”

“Have you taken up languages, then?”

“Hardly. But I’ve been their neighbour for nearly twenty years, you do pick things up in that amount of time. Why do you even care?”

“Because… well I suppose it’s because I don’t understand you.”

“Granger, why would you want to? Honestly.” His tone was a mixture of exasperation and weariness, and something quieter, wistful. 

In that moment, she ought to have said ‘because you sound like that.’ Expecting so little of the world; defeated, vulnerable. A heavy cushion of white lichen crunched beneath her boots, and the moment stretched out, like the tails of the bell curve he’d drawn in the dirt. Infinite, dissipating into meaningless entropy. Her silence seemed to be the only answer he expected. It was the only one she really had to give him.

A mournful quorking sound echoed above the scratch of whippy underbrush against their legs. Snape paused to cock an ear in the direction of the sound. 

“Raven?” She asked.

“Haven’t seen them around much, lately. Been off at the hunting camps, most likely.”

“Are there so many around here? People, I mean. I thought this was pretty isolated, it’s what Holowycziuk said.”

“No, not many. Seasonal places, makeshift camps mostly, although my nearest neighbour, Albert, has a fish camp down along Hawley Lake. North of here. No one overwinters, though, people just come out for the fishing, or moose-hunting. But the caribou will be returning about now, so I imagine everyone’s left. And so the ravens are scouting for their next handout.”

“It’d be neat to see one in the wild. Before I leave,” she hesitated – was she trying to make conversation with him? – “I was looking forward to seeing some, when I went up to Scotland, to school, I mean.” She carefully didn’t say _When I went to Hogwarts_. His earlier crack about Flitwick could’ve meant anything, including what he’d actually said. “But I never did, only heard them a few times. In the Forest of Dean, actually.”

They’d gained the narrow shore before he replied, “There were still a few around when I was a student. They’d harry the post-owls. I remember Hagrid used to set out poisoned offal; post before pests, I suppose. I like them, though. Ravens, I mean.”

She didn’t think there’d been any danger of her misinterpreting his comment, despite this new discursive trend in his manner of address. She remembered curt, sullen responses, whiplash barbs. But there _had_ been rare oddly-flowing monologues, when he’d been so obviously enraptured with his subject that he seemed to have forgotten entirely that they existed. She… she rather _missed_ that Snape, she discovered. It was sort of nice, in a way, finding glimpses of that fellow here. If she could just ignore the rich scent of decaying leaves, the cloying resin of the spruce looming around them was almost familiar from his Potions lab. If she could just avoid seeing the splash of his bright plaid shirt, echoing the brilliant reds of the tiny round leaves in the ubiquitious groundcover. Snape, the Snape she knew, didn’t belong _here_. This bloke? He probably talked to his dog the way Professor Snape had so adroitly monologued.

“Are the ravens a problem for your post owl here, then?”

“Not in the least bit.” He’d propped his gun, paddle, fishing pole, and the radio pack against one of the lichen-crusted benches of rock. “On account of the fact that I don’t have one. Most people don’t bother. It would be remarkably insensitive, it fell out of favour decades ago. Besides, owls are actually incredibly stupid birds.”

“They seem to manage to deliver the post in England just fine.”

“Because they’ve been ensorcelled. A wild owl has an attention span that barely transcends the space betwixt one meal and the next. About the same as most of the Weasley boys, as I recall. I expect the provenance of pellets is some deep and profound mystery to the average owl. But even if I weren’t avoiding magic, it’s not really politic here to keep them.”

“Because Canadian wizards are so deeply enmeshed with Muggles, you mean.”

“I could just say ‘yes’, but that’s not the entire story, nor even then greater part of it. It’s a cultural context thing; in most of the indigenous traditions around here, owls are ill omens, bad luck. It’s just not on.” He hefted a dull, gray-green canoe out of the shrubbery and tilted it up.

“D’you need a hand?” She asked, watching him manoeuvre the boat up to his shoulders.

“Oh, absolutely, I’d clearly be lost without your help.” His voice echoed from beneath its curved hull.

She rolled her eyes. “So how do people get post then, if they don’t use owls?”

Snape settled the canoe at the water’s edge, and stalked back to retrieve his belongings. “There’s this thing called _Canada Post_ , Granger. It’s very nearly a mail delivery service,” he snarked. 

“Bella!” He whistled sharply, and the dog came crashing back out of the underbrush, and promptly flung herself into the canoe in a frenzied wiggle of hindquarters. “Demonstrate to me that you’re as clever as my dog, Granger.”

She pursed her lips tight. He was looking for a reaction, that was all. Just carry on. “Er, which?” She gestured vaguely at the canoe.

“In the front, unless you know where we’re going.”

She seated herself with a faint huff, and pushed back at the dog, who’d decided this intruder merited a good sniffing. 

“Bella. Down.” Snape gestured to the stern, and the dog curled beneath the seat. He tucked his fishing rod and rifle in, then settled in a kneeling position midway along the length of the canoe and abruptly far too close for comfort. She turned back, directing her attention out towards the lake as he levered them away from shore with a powerful thrust of the blunt, narrow paddle. Faint gusts of his exhalations tickled along the back of her neck, as he propelled them out into the open water. She inched forward a bit on the seat.

“Since it didn’t _seem_ as though you enjoyed your bath this morning, I’d recommend against fidgeting overmuch, Granger. Especially as I’m not over-inclined towards fishing you out.”

“Right, coming back to that, how is it that water, or what did you say, standing water? How does it work to close – or, what, collapse? – collapse the effect window?”

“I think of it as destabilizing decay rate, enhancing the accumulation of entropy.”

“Alright, but how is it that _water_ works? And does it work for any effect window, or only certain spells?”

“In reverse order, no, it doesn’t seem to be universal, and I have no idea.” He sounded blithely unconcerned.

“Then how,” she said slowly, “given that _Finite Incantatem_ will close any window, did anyone ever discover this? Through what combination of circumstance and sheer dumb luck would anyone figure that out?” She had a sneaking suspicion that he’d been having her on – considering all his pat and logical answers earlier, this lofty disinterest was a worrying departure off the norm.

“Granger, the question you ought to be asking is how, in a world where wands can be confiscated and accessed with _Priori Incantatem_ , have you never considered that people might find ways around spells, even if only as alternatives to potentially incriminating themselves? Which, not to throw my own house under the lorry, as it were, but I do suspect _that_ in itself was motivation enough for most of Slytherin. Little tricks like standing water? I’ve picked up loads of them over the years.”

She wondered if the Half-blood Prince had continued journaling his ‘little tricks’. If so, she’d missed the book when they’d ransacked his house. …But ‘potentially incriminating’ led her on to a more sobering thought. “I didn’t realise Imperius could be cast nonverbally.”

“If you’d attended Durmstrang, you’d know. Their philosophy is that a school exists to teach the mechanics of magic, and that inculcating a sense of ethos and morality is the duty of a student’s family and community. They get slandered for teaching the Dark Arts, but they’re not, actually – they’re instructing students in how the spells are constructed, the mechanics that underpin them.”

“If… Alright, so Imperius is an Unforgiveable – can any of the others be cast nonverbally? And how about wandlessly?” She figured that was an oblique enough lead-in to what she really wanted to know. Could he kill without his wand?

“Don’t think so. Haven’t heard otherwise.”

Well. Was she reassured, or not? He’d lied straight to Voldemort’s face for years, how likely was it that she’d notice if he wasn’t being straight with her? 

Snape’s subsidence into silence formed a counterpoint to her whirling thoughts. The quiet here was stifling and heavy, broken only by the soft, rhythmic splish of the paddle as he knifed the tip out of the glassy water before letting the shaft clunk back against the side of the canoe. 

His easy strokes were deceptive, they’d come a considerable distance, clear past the rounded wall of conifer-topped rock that she’d taken for the northern margin of the lake. It had given way to a narrow channel, running down into a gaping cleft between two jagged promontories. The weak autumn light blazed along the cliffs’ grey faces and silvered the water lapping up through the tumble of rock between them. “That’s Sutton Narrows, is it?”

“Mmm.”

“Are we going much closer?”

“No.” So much for that.

“Oh. Why not? Could a person?”

He sighed. “I don’t feel like ripping out the hull of my canoe today, thanks. You’ll get a view from the top should it please Your Majesty.”

There was really nothing to say to that, was there?

He steered the canoe up to the approaching western bank, and pivoted the paddle to stall its motion. “Alright, Bel, you know the drill,” he said, and in a less conversational tone, “Bella! Take a look.”

The canoe lurched as the dog scrambled up over the side. She hit the water in a great spray, and paddled up to the shore; she shook vigorously before loping off into the trees. 

“What’s that about, then?”

“Making her earn her keep; damn dog eats enough for an animal twice her size. Needs it to grow all that hair, I suppose.” He finished correcting their drift, and continued, “Bear scouting. There are black bear around, fattening up for winter, and over the years there’s been the occasional polar bear, too. Young males come off the tundra, fairly deep into the bogs.”

“Do you know, never in a million years would I have pictured you as the woodsman type.”

“You learn things, if you want to survive out here. If you’re smart, you make a concerted effort to learn them fast and thoroughly. Now be quiet, so I can listen for the dog.”

Long minutes passed. The weak autumn sun was sinking past its zenith, but the afternoon _was_ warm, and the effect of light bouncing off the faintly rippling water was nearly hypnotic. She was almost disappointed when the dog re-emerged from the trees with a sharp bark. Snape poled the canoe up to shore, and wake of their passage shredded the last of the unexpected calm.

He set his usual brutal pace as they ascended the hill. She was beginning to sweat, and her forearms were sore from batting aside branches by the time they emerged onto the open summit. She could see the lowlands stretching off to the west, and long, algae-green ponds lapping at the western toes of the ridge, dissecting the land. “You can see for miles up here,” she wondered.

“And with a little luck, transmit a signal for miles, too.” Snape was apparently habituated to the view; his long strides were carrying him further up the rise. She hurried to catch up, trying to be mindful of stepping on the tufty grasses and low heaths, instead of the lichen-encrusted rock. In the back of her mind, she could almost hear her dad rapturing over the density, gently reminding her how many decades it would take the lichens to recover from her clumsy feet.

Snape paused; he was engrossed with the radio handset, which disabused her of the notion that he might’ve been waiting on her. “You can see the gorge, just over there,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely to their right. “Mind the edge, though, it crumbles. Falling might be alright, but I wouldn’t recommend the sudden stop at the bottom.”

She left him to his radio, and cautiously picked her way down the slight slope to the edge of the promontory. It _was_ rather a ways down, and the chaotic jumbles of fallen rock seemed to give the lie to Snape’s suggestion that falling alone wouldn’t hurt. She rather expected anyone stumbling off of this would be pleased to reach the bottom, if only for the cessation of agony. She took a couple steps back, rubbing her arms against the sudden breeze that twisted through the sere grass.

Snape didn’t seem to be having much luck: he’d now resorted to holding the handset above his head, and making small adjustments to his position. It looked ridiculous. If she hadn’t been quite so keen on actually getting out of here, she’d have been inclined to laugh. 

Clearly, there was nothing _she_ could do, and if she knew him at all, staying within his line of sight would only make his resentment fester. Discretion being the better part of valour, she ambled north along the plateau as she watched the dog pouncing at something in a clump of low shrubs. A mouse, or perhaps there were ground squirrels here? 

The dog’s antics drew her gaze to a far stranger sight: Beyond where the furry beast stood, ears pricked forward and tail rigid with excitement, was an open stretch of rock, upon which an assortment of stones had been laid out in four concentric circles, interconnected by a series of cobbles forming spokes. Curiouser and curiouser; some were crusted in lichens, weathered and bleached, and still others showed percussive scars, signs of having been prised from their country stone. There didn’t seem to be any pattern to their distribution. Perhaps she needed a different angle on it. She started forward.

“Granger? Where’d you get off to?”

“Down this side of the swale, what is this, these stones?”

“Oh for god’s sake.” Snape’s exasperation was writ in every line of his body. “What do you think, it’s my bloody rock garden. Keep your oafish feet out of there. Would you kindly just come here and _sit down_?”

She scowled. She wasn’t some stupid child.

“I said come here. The dog listens better than you do, and I doubt her brain’s even a fifth the size of yours.”

She threw herself sarcastically down onto the ground at the top of the rise. “Happy?”

“Overjoyed.”

“Tell me you got a signal.”

“Not that overjoyed.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” She was going home, she had to be going home. She’d even cook, do the laundry for a change, she wheedled with whatever universal powers might be paying attention.

“Granger, if I knew that, I’d have a signal.” He made another adjustment.

“Well what’s the… I don’t know, the range?”

“Transmission’s good for twenty-five, thirty miles. That’s not the problem.”

“What do you mean, that’s not the problem, Peawanuck must be a hundred miles away!”

“Half that, but I’m not _trying_ to raise them.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I’m trying to get Hearst Air, or Albert’s fish camp. They can transmit to YPO from there. Hearst’s a long shot, but I thought they might still be up here. There _should_ have still been someone down at the camp on Hawley, but all I’ve got is static.” He glared at the handset as though it had personally offended him. It probably had.

“So… so what now?”

“Damned if I know. Bloody _hell_ ,” he kicked at a stone, “I wanted you _gone_ , I haven’t got time for this shite.” 

“Well, excuse me for existing; it wasn’t entirely my own choice to be here!”

He took a deep breath, collecting himself. “I. Know. That.” He visibly exhaled, his nostrils flaring. “Alright, let me think. It’s no good waiting around; this could be solar radiation, flare interference. It’ll be more efficient to go straight down to Albert’s. Come on.” He turned down the hill.

“How long will that take, how far is it?”

“Assuming there’s no wind tomorrow? If you knew the first thing about boating, we could maybe get 3 miles per hour. Do you?” 

She shook her head

“Figures. It’s 20 kilometers, or a little better. I can do it without a load in six, seven hours. And there’s the portage to consider, call _that_ another hour.”

“But… isn’t this… _fish camp_ just in the next lake over?”

“It’s a bloody long lake.”

She narrowly avoided the branch that swung back behind him as he plowed through the trees. “Why tomorrow, why not get a head start today?”

“Granger, by the time we get back to the cabin, gear up, and get back over here, it’ll easily be three o’clock. Sundown’s at seven, we’d be on the water in full dark. No. I’ll loan you a bedroll and we’ll get up early.”

Once more into the canoe; he rowed back in silence, and she spent the time arranging her thoughts. A setback. That’s what this was. Happened all the time ‘round the office. Pick up, focus on something else, and eventually it would get sorted. The trouble, she thought darkly, was that there was nothing else _to_ focus on. Well, aside from whatever madness Snape got up to when he wasn’t playing at being a frontiersman. And that didn’t seem a terribly profitable avenue of contemplation, all things considered.

“About earlier.” He lifted the paddle from the water, and laid it crosswise over the canoe. She watched him fiddle with his fishing pole before he spoke again, but it wasn’t her he addressed. “Lie down, Bella. You don’t need a mouse in the eye.”

The dog compliantly rolled back on her flank. She was probably Snape’s ideal companion: she did everything she’d been trained to, without any awkward questions.

“A mouse?”

“Type of fly. Here, like this.” He tilted the business end of the pole forward so that she could see the hook he’d attached. “This one’s caribou hair and a bit of leather. You knot a bunch of it up with a hook, trim it so that it looks like a mouse. Brook trout will take them like nobody’s business.

“Not what I was going to say, though.” He cast away to a spot near an overhanging tree. “There wasn’t any call for snapping at you earlier. Wanted to say sorry about that.”

Well, fuck. And here she’d been getting comfortable actively disliking him again.

“Mmm. So are you going to tell me what you’re up to, then? What’s with those stones? It almost reminded me of a medicine wheel, didn’t Indians do that?”

“Oh, of course it’s a medicine wheel, because my other hobby is blatant cultural appropriation.” He jagged the line hard, and began reeling in, “And it’s not all Natives. The only Cree who made medicine wheels are Plains Cree; Swampy Cree don’t. Didn’t. Whatever.”

“So what is it, then?”

“It’s something you’re going to leave well-enough alone.”

She turned away as he grasped the struggling trout along its' gills. A course of pre-nauseous saliva flooded into her mouth as she listened to it thrashing. She was almost thankful when the sound stopped. Snape sculled the boat farther down along the shore, before setting up to cast again, with similar results.

When they’re regained the beach below his cabin, he made fast work of stowing the canoe before he knelt at the water’s edge to scale the fish. With the knife he’d worn at his hip, he made a series of precise, elegant motions, flicking gobbets of slimy scales away into the lake. A deft stroke opened the fish from anus to gills, and he scooped out their organs. This wasn’t any worse than potions-making, she reminded herself. And she drank headache tonics. 

He tossed the guts out onto the water before bending again to rinse his hands. She became aware of the heavy susurrus of wingbeats only moments before twin shadows fell across the ground, and their makers swooped down along the water. “There’s your ravens, Granger. Carry these up, would you?” He thrust the fish at her, and headed for the trail.

She watched the ravens winging away across the lake, bits of offal trailing from their claws. Somehow, they weren’t exactly what she’d been expecting. None of this was.

She readjusted her fingers in the fishes’ gills, squared her shoulders, and followed her erstwhile host.

The wind had been steadily picking up; she hadn’t noticed while they’d been under the cover of the trees, but now it came in biting gusts through the clearing. Snape had glanced to the northeast a few times with a moue of discontent. Perhaps he’d been calculating how long their morning sojourn would take if this kept up. She wondered how much of her company he’d put up with, before giving back her wand and sending her apparating away. Should she be a help, or a hindrance, to facilitate the arrival of that conclusion?

“Where do you want these things?” She held the fish aloft.

“Those things are dinner, and you can find a platter inside.”

“It’s alright to just go in?” Not that she thought there were any wards, but better safe than sorry. He nodded, and she left him to the stack of firewood he’d busied himself with. By the time she’d deposited the _things_ inside, poured herself a cup of cold tea, and re-emerged into the sunlight, he’d gotten a merry blaze going in the firepit. He was busy transporting the remainder of the chopped wood to neat stacks alongside the cabin. 

“Want me to get you a cup?” She gestured with her own.

“Later. Though you could bring the kettle and put it over the fire.”

“I presume there’s more water, somewhere?”

“How could you possibly have missed that there’s a whole lake full of the stuff? Mind you, I wouldn’t advocate ever using it straight. Giardiasis is probably less fun than it sounds.”

“And if we can’t charm it sanitary, what, then, you just boil it all the time?”

“Or drink rye. I’ve been doing that lately.” It wouldn’t have surprised her if it were true. He looked distinctively seedy close-up. He’d missed some stubble along his jaw the last few times he’d bothered shaving. “Better that than the beer.”

“Oh?”

“All I’ve got left is Labatt’s, and that’s like having sex in a canoe – it’s fucking close to water.”

Like having--- her brain hiccoughed. Snape and sex did not belong in the same sentence, even if he did have a nice arse. After all, he was a fifty-something virgin, wasn’t he? Her eyes were inexorably drawn back toward the path, and her mind back to the canoe and that twitch of breath on her neck, the close rustle of his clothing in her ears. Nope. She was not going to ask. Nope-nope-nope: “And do you come by this knowledge through personal experience?”

If an eyebrow alone could epitomize sarcasm, his certainly did. “As to the beer, yes. As to the other, it logically follows,” he said after a long pause. “If you’re curious, I’d suggest an experiment, but the research climate in this country is rather inhospitable at present. And it gets cold out, nights.” His upper lip twitched faintly. 

It did not seem as though they were discussing inferior alcohol. “Erm.” Well, that was a stellar come-back. “I’m not sure this is an appropriate conversational direction, Professor.”

Snape sighed, scowled. “Oh, relax, Granger, I haven’t any designs on your virtue.”

So they really hadn’t been talking about the beer. “Granger-Weasley.” It was time to get some things straight.

“Well, I’m sorry for you and all, but wouldn’t it be better to keep that quiet?”

She caught herself before she could laugh. “And what, exactly, do you have against my husband?”

“Nothing in the world. I don’t hold grudges against flobberworms, either, for that matter. I mean, honestly, couldn’t you have done better for yourself?” He leaned against the woodpile, and surveyed her across his hooked nose.

“I’ve been very happy with Ron! We have a lovely family, a son and –“

“Fine, fine. Don’t get your knickers knotted over it. Although I do wonder how you kept his attention long enough to manage coitus – probably had to wear Quidditch robes to bed, I expect. Bannock alright with the fish for dinner, then?”

“How dare you --! Wait, what?”

“Bannock. With the fish. Dinner? Acceptable?”

She blinked. “Y-yes, I’m sure that will be fine.”

“So, then, if you’re not actually going to fetch water, you might consider helping stack firewood. This isn’t an inn, contrary to general appearances.” He gestured broadly around the clearing.

“Which do you want me to do first?” Helpful. She was going to be helpful, even if he didn’t deserve it.

“Get water; there’s a yoke and pails along the east shelf. Try to give the algae a miss if you can help it.”

She snatched up the contraption he’d indicated, and set off down the trail in a fury. Miserable sonofabitch. Like he had any right to cast aspersions on her attractiveness, _or_ her marriage. The best _he’d_ managed in terms of relationships was a pathetic one-sided obsession and a _dog_. The annoying animal was following her; she tossed a stone in its direction, but the missile elicited only a tail wag and a canine grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I appreciate your kindness in leaving me your thoughts, and I welcome any constructive criticism you feel like offering.


	5. Hello, my name is ____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, it’s not abandoned! I’ve just been busy, and there was Stuff (deets on Livejournal, yo). But here’s a new chapter, so you don’t have to take my [Slytherin] word on the ‘not abandoned’ thing. 
> 
> There’s a big note about this chapter over on [Livejournal](http://zigadenus.livejournal.com/85880.html), because I wanted to clarify specific things that I’ve included here. If you want to chat about any of it, let’s do it over there so that everyone can see the thread! The TL;DR version of that note is: I am writing fiction. Don’t equate this with ethnology. And if you happen to speak Cree, I’d love to learn from you.

She was blowing steam, as she puffed back up the trail. Literally: her breath floated away into the trees, clouds of it in tempo with the slosh of the water she was hauling. On the metaphorical front, however, her ire had nearly run down, replaced again with the slow trickling whinge of _Why me?_

"There's a water tank 'round back," Snape called out, as she crested the rise into the clearing.

"Pardon me?"

"Back of the cabin. Go dump those pails in."

Sure enough, there was a massive plastic tank, not nearly opaque enough to conceal the water level barely a foot shy of the top. There was a long coil of heavy black hose leaned against it, and she'd have cheerfully bet a paycheque that the nearby contraption was a pump. Bastard. Was this punishment, then, for shutting down his inept little flirtation? She glared at the pails, and contemplated dumping them right over his greasy head.

"Ah, caught on, have you." Snape was suddenly behind her, his voice eminently bland. "When you get to be my age, your back will appreciate little conveniences." He hefted one of the pails up, and tipped a splash into what could only be the dog's water dish.

"This is all some sadistic game to you, isn't it." Ron would've appreciated that a descent into rhetorical statements presaged ill fortune in the extreme. Judging by the slight crinkle around Snape's eyes, he lacked either skill at such observations, or a healthy sense of self-preservation.

"Well it bought me nearly twenty minutes of quiet, so I'm that far ahead."

"I sincerely hope you rot in hell."

"I'm rotting in Canada, isn't that good enough?"

"Hardly rotting!"

"Oh, Granger, you don't know the half of it," he sighed as he retreated around the corner of the cabin.

And thus she was robbed of a target, er, opponent. She kicked idly at the log wall, which reminded her anew of the toes she'd stubbed slipping on the rocks. Damn it all, she was Ms. H. Granger-Weasely – she had a fancy brass nameplate on her office door to prove it – and career-minded witches with hyphenated last names simply did not have temper tantrums. Enough of this. Snape was so very clearly the same arse he'd always been, and it wouldn't do her a whit of good to descend to his level. Let him have his petty pleasures, she'd be gone soon enough. And there was, after all, a world of retribution she could heap upon him from afar.

This resolved, she drew in a bracing breath of cold air, squared her shoulders, and marched off to do battle with whatever he managed to concoct for dinner.

"So if Canada's so miserable – and looking around, I'm inclined to agree with you, mind – why on Earth are you here?" She asked cordially, as she brushed debris from the rude bench he'd constructed of a plank laid across the cut ends of two heavy logs. She settled herself expectantly, knees crossed and hands clasped. If he wanted to play games…

"Oh, well, you know. The fishing's excellent."

"No. I simply refuse to discuss fishing with you, Professor."

For a long time, he made no reply. She watched as he poked a dutch oven out of the coals and assessed its contents. Apparently not done; he nudged it back into the heat. Now that she was really looking at him, she could read tension in the lines of his body. He seemed to be almost fidgeting; even when he did finally seat himself, it was with his axe and a whetstone. The steady rasping of it set her teeth on edge.

"I wish you'd lay off the 'Professor' bit," he finally offered, his tone exceedingly mild. He didn't look up from his task. The edge of the axe was already gleaming in the last amber light of the dying sun. Overkill, much? Rasp, rasp, rasp.

"It's not meant disrespectfully." After all, she prided herself on being rather more creative than _that_ , if it came to sticks and stones.

"No, but you're not eleven, either, are you?" Rasp, rasp, rasp.

"Thanks for noticing. Why, then, do you insist upon calling me 'Granger'?"

Rasp, rasp, rasp. He tested the edge against his thumb, and set his tools aside before meeting her eyes. "I suppose it's because I'm sorry as hell to find you've murdered her, and I'm wondering if she might be brought back to life if someone just asks after her often enough."

He hadn't just – had he? "You've just equated my marriage to a crime scene, haven't you? Said I've murdered my potential." The words seemed curiously distant as they fell from her mouth.

He raked at the coals again, seemingly unable to be still more than a moment. "Not… not precisely. It's nothing to do with your husband, it's who you've become. Think on this a tick, what do you suppose being dead really is? I don't mean freshly-interred-and-everyone-sobbing dead, but all the way down to worm castings. When the groundskeeper doesn't quite recall who's supposed to be planted there, and the cheap plastic flowers are faded beyond recognition."

"That's a remarkable non sequitur," she observed.

"When your name is gone, that's _dead_. And I think you can kill parts of yourself, bit by bit. As you've done."

"Well thanks for the insight, but I feel perfectly alive."

"Of course _you_ do. It's Granger we're talking about."

Madness. "So your thesis, then, is that when a person marries, changes their name—"

"Oh, not only that. There are any number of ways to kill off pieces of your identity. Very occasionally, it's even merited. But some people will keep chipping away at the facets of their essence until they've hollowed themselves out completely, forgotten the core of who they are. And I think you've done that. Willfully, even. You're not 'Granger', even in your own head, anymore. And it's a shame you couldn't keep her safe from your scorn."

She wondered if she ought to helpfully point out that he was, in all likelihood, projecting. Scorn? Where did he get off on assuming something was deeply flawed in her life? "Perhaps the situation needs reframing – suppose I'm 'Hermione' in my own head? Always have been. I expect I've only ever been 'Granger' in yours."

"Ah. Well, _requiem aeternam dona ei_ , and I'll raise a glass in memory of the girl after we've had dinner." He leaned forward to retrieve the cookware from the coals.

Snape had gone a bit touched, it was clear enough. She thought back to what Holowycziuk's friend had said, about staying alone too long. And yet the pieces didn't fit together that neatly: Holowycziuk could hardly be the only pilot in Snape's employ – he'd been in the nation's capital at a protest only a week ago. A crowd of nearly a hundred hardly constituted 'alone'. "So then, explain this to me. If changing your name is killing part of your identity – thanks," she took the proffered plate from his hands, "How do you explain the name Prince?" He might be living in the adopted skin of 'that geologist, Prince', but who was he, really, inside _his_ head?

"Well, I never said a spot of murder wasn't merited, now and again. A fellow I met, oh, years ago now, said something that made sense to me. I'd asked him his name, and he sort of laughed at me, said 'Which one?' You intimated the notion earlier: what other people call you doesn't always have any bearing upon how you define yourself."

"Pardon my skepticism, but 'Which one?' hardly seems like a pearl of wisdom." She studied the way he inserted his fork along the fish's backbone, and copied the movement. His motions pulled the flesh back from the spine, which he lifted off his plate by the tail, flicking the entire skeleton into the fire. Her own attempts resulted in… what could only be called a mess.

She caught a glimpse of his smirk in the flickering light of the flames. "That's right, we never did cover 'Boning a Trout' in class, did we?"

"Funny."

"Well, you've buggered that for fair. Give the tail a pull, there. That's some of them. Watch out for the spines while you're eating, that's the best you can do now. And no, 'Which one' wasn't the point of what I was saying. Being blithely ignorant, I said 'Well, the real one.' And he impressed upon me rather strongly that it was about the rudest thing I could've done, asking for that kind of power."

"Power? What do you mean?"

"Tea? You'll have to let me monologue a bit to explain this properly. It's far too facile a summary of a complex culture, but you could say that amongst the Cree, names are a form of knowledge, and knowledge a form of power. To learn someone's name, you have to be able to offer something of like value in return – friendship, kinship, assistance. It's more than a simple exchange of identities. Our Western names are imposed on us at birth; they're meaningless, because we never really live in them, just carry them along like extra baggage. Our names don't signify any key aspect of our identity, they aren't a window into our histories, our talents, our personality, our essence. It's different up here."

"But they do have names. I met some natives; a policeman, and a bloke named Roy—"

"Oh, certainly. When the missionaries got 'hold of everyone, they just couldn't help themselves from handing out the Christian brands, could they?"

"Alright, point. But that was centuries ago."

"Decades, at the most. No more than the past few generations, around here."

"But still, they _do_ have names. Why couldn't he have just told you his Christian name?"

"Well, he did. Damned if I remember it. Walter, erm, Saginay, I think. I wrote it down somewhere, probably."

She poked a bone past her lip, and wiped it on the edge of her plate. "You don't even know his name, but you built an entire moral philosophy out of something he told you?"

"Bones go in the fire. We need to burn rubbish around here, on account of bears. And you've missed my point. No, I have no idea what he called himself; I expect it was probably something he dreamed. His niece would know, if anyone does, but I never found out. But I do know what his friends called him, so I knew a name that he recognized as containing parts of himself. That's at the core of a name, and that's why they're powerful. How we think about ourselves actively shapes who we are becoming."

"And are you still the 'Halfblood Prince', then?"

"Potter's got a big yap, hasn't he? No, I'm not. Not for a very long time. As I said, some self-murders are merited. 'Snape', too."

"Because it was a Muggle name." It was as she'd always expected, a little river of superiority flowing down in his depths. Wannabe-Pureblood, Death Eater, the way his eyes had always slid past her when she'd attempted to impress him with her right to be in his dungeon.

"Looked me up, did you?"

"The night you killed Dumbledore."

"Hmm. No, to answer your question, not at all because it's Muggle. Only because it was something borrowed. I expect I don't have a right to it, nor do I want that particular stamp upon me anymore. Things were… odd, growing up. I won't bore you."

Odd? Given what she knew of his history, it seemed a bizarre choice of descriptors. She swallowed a bite of bannock, and decided that, on the balance, those particular remarks might just be something better left alone. "So. What does everyone call you, then?"

"Oh come now, Granger, you know the answer to that one," the corner of his mouth lifted in a wry, empty smile. "Greasy Git, wasn't it?" He leaned forward to lean another piece of wood into the fire. A brief inferno of sparks showered up, floating away and dying high in the night air.

"I never said that, Sir. Not once," she offered quietly, amidst the crackle of bursting resin blisters.

He was quiet for a long time. Reliving the Hogwarts years, perhaps? He rose, finally, disappearing out of the ring of light and into the limpid black of the clearing. She concentrated on picking the last of the bones out of her fish. He'd be back, or he wouldn't. It was what he did, apparently, blowing intermittently hot and cold.

"People just call me Prince." He tossed a dry-looking bone in the dog's direction, before reseating himself. "It's as good a name as any, and at least it's honest. Or nearly; I've been conflated with Tommy Prince's family, on occasion."

"Who?"

"Ojibway scout, sniper. Fought with the Canadian contingent of the Devil's Brigade, in the Second World War. I don't always correct people's assumptions." He shrugged.

Snakes might shed their skins, but the new one invariably looked like the old. And at least you could count on Slytherins to always do what was in their own best interests. It was vaguely comforting to know that whatever ethical dilemma Snape had with his name, he had not otherwise changed any fundamental outlook on life.

"Drink?" He asked, tapping the side of the bottle he'd apparently retrieved while he was up.

This was becoming too intimate, by far. Her fingers brushed his as she accepted his offering; she scrubbed them against her thigh.

"To Granger, unparalleled swot." He had lifted his enamel cup in her direction, a mocking salute. That was right, he'd said he would toast the demise of the person he thought she'd been.

"Being bookish didn't get me the things I wanted. You, of all people, should understand that." She pursed her lips against the remainder of her thoughts, aware that her tone was becoming defensive.

"The things you wanted? No, I'm afraid I don't. I can't remember the last time I wanted anything at all."

It wasn't what she'd meant, but, "I'd been under the impression you rather wanted Harry to live."

"Mmm. Perhaps. Or perhaps that was Snape."

"Ah, that's right, he's dead too, isn't he?"

"Rather thoroughly –

_'And there in the Shack, after the snake's attack,_  
_I exsanguinated Severus Snape._  
_There are strange things done, by wizards on the run…'_

No, I don't think that'll do at all, there aren't anywhere near enough couplets to keep the cadence going." He sighed with apparent sorrow.

She huffed a little breath of laughter, "Well then, to Severus Snape, snarly bastard," and mimed a toast.

He mock-solemnly raised his cup again, and they drank in unison. The whiskey burned her throat going down, and her eyes smarted. "Bah, that's strong."

"Well, if we're done our eulogies, I'd recommend cutting it with tea. Sacrilege, but it'll go further." He took his own advice.

"You know, I had the most horrible guilt complex, after the War." It fell off her tongue, and there was no way to recapture the words. Onward into the breach? "It made me sick inside, realising we'd just stood there and watched you die."

"And a good job you did. D'you know, I nearly shat myself, when _you_ waltzed out of the wings into my scene. How is it that you failed to call bullshit on someone bleeding out from a snakebite? I'm still rather disappointed – it worked out well enough for me, mind, but I really thought you were one of the few students who wasn't a complete loss. Perhaps Granger died on my own watch – in that case, we're even; I can try nurturing a guilt complex, too."

"Oh my god, I'm such a sodding idiot." Snake venom _coagulated_ blood. Heat rose beneath her eyes.

A wide grin blossomed across Snape's face. "Can you say that again? Just once? Slowly, maybe? I want to savour it."

She scrubbed at her cheeks and eyelids; it did little to dispel her embarrassment. "What, because people calling themselves idiots is your idea of a striptease?"

He quirked a brow, and visibly attempted to swallow his grin. "Heavens no. My idea of a striptease involves significantly less clothing. But it'll do for a prelude."

"Fuck off." There it was, that burning little coal of resentment that she could nurture back into a righteous flame. Snape was neither friend nor colleague. If he belonged in any category in her life, it was 'Misadventure'.

He propped his elbows on his knees, and settled his gaze on the dog, who was worrying at the bone near the edge of the firelight. It was to that quarter that he eventually directed his words, "I don't suppose she ever heard the one about flies and honey, eh nisîmis?"

Rich, coming from Snape. But he was back to talking to his dog, which was just pitiful enough to elicit a grudging, "Sorry."

"Yes, you're right, Bella- nitím, some people do get raised by wolves. But I suppose we could give her the benefit of the doubt if she hands that bottle back over."

She sighed at his masterful hypocrisy, but snagged the whiskey from near her feet and passed it over to him. He gave her a short nod, splashed some liquor into his mug, and supplemented it with hot tea from the kettle.

"How about a truce? I'll stop pulling your pigtails, if you stop flying off the handle at the slightest provocation."

"Oh, is that what you think you've been doing?" She said, with a wry grimace.

"Mmm. It's just so _easy_. I haven't had this much sport in ages."

"Sport. Lovely."

"Certainly. You're ranking right up there with the time Bella caught her tail on fire." He choked back what sounded suspiciously like an aborted snort, and busied himself with the coals again.

"Flaming dogs are entertaining? I suppose you drowned kittens as a child." She glared at him over the rim of her mug.

"So censorious. It was funny in context, I think you had to have been there."

"Speaking of." She made a valiant effort to ignore the unapologetic little twitch lurking at the corner of his lips. "You haven't really named your dog for Bellatrix Lestrange, have you?"

"Sadly. By the time this daft creature grew on me and it stopped being amusing, she wouldn't answer to anything else. And well, she _is_ a bit of a psychotic bitch." The bitch in question crunched away at her bone, unperturbed by this character assessment. "A lot of things were funny in the beginning."

"But not anymore?"

"Well, in the beginning, see, I didn't really understand what I was letting myself in for. This country – and, well, certain things – it all has a way of sobering you up fast, whether you're drunk or not. Want another round?" He tilted the bottle in her general direction.

She shrugged, and took it back. "Certain things?"

"Certain things. Things that are certain. And certainly not up for discussion." He stretched his legs out toward the fire. "But I suppose I could tell you about Two-Jack."

"Two-Jack? What's a two-jack?"

"That fellow I mentioned earlier. Let me see if I can remember how to do this properly, it's been a long time since I've heard it. I'll try, anyway.

The story goes something like this: _There's this chap who builds himself a fishing weir. Now, it's a long walk to the weir, so he isn't really saving himself time, but maybe, he thinks, he'll catch more fish that way. So, he gets up one morning, walks all the way out, and drags up a net full of jackfish. Needless to say, he's pleased with himself, and he heads for home. But he starts to get an itch between his shoulders, and sure enough, there's Wapu_ _s_ _k watching him –_ 'Wapusk' is the name for polar bears. Where was I? _– So, Wapu_ _s_ _k is watching him, and sniffing at the air, and then he starts coming up the trail. So, this chap thinks, he'll throw Wapu_ _s_ _k a fish, and keep going while he stops to eat it. And so he does. Five, ten, more times than you can count, he throws fish back down the trail for him. And finally he gets home, but Wapusk is_ still _coming behind him. So he looks in his fish basket: n'i_ _s_ _o_ _iyinito-_ _kino_ _s_ _êwe_ _k kī-ihta_ _s_ _ehkēw! - there were only two fish left! And Wapu_ _s_ _k, he sees this too, and he says, 'Well, I see you're pretty much out of fish, and since you're home now I can't eat_ you _either. So I guess I have to teach you some medicine.'_

People would start to laugh when they'd get to how many times he threw away the fish; whoever was telling the story would invariably ratchet up the number in response. When they got to the Cree bit – If I remembered the words correctly, it translates more as 'two jackfish stayed behind', which is part of the joke, that the fish themselves had agency, like they were trying to escape from him all along- anyway, everyone would be laughing by then." Snape lapsed into silence, the sly grin that had lit his features mellowing into some pensive remembrance.

She chewed at her lip, trying to find the words to convey her confusion. "So this native you know—"

"Knew. Past tense."

"Ok. But his name was some kind of joke about feeding a polar bear? How is that some superlative, mythic personal identity?"

"It's not mythic. I never said that. And I imagine the details are largely apocryphal. Although, several people have assured me that they remembered a time when Two-Jack lost a day's work to a bear. But veracity of details aside, it was a name he _used_. I doubt by the end of his life he even remembered he'd once been called 'Walter', he'd been Two-Jack for such a long time."

"If it's apocryphal, it only makes my point stronger. Earlier, you were going on about names having power, vitally informing personal identity. How is a nickname based on an apocryphal story in any way more relevant than someone's Christian name?"

"But don't you see? That's the point – when you know that story, you know something important _about him_. Knowing that he accepted that story as part of his identity tells you that he could laugh at himself, that he owned his foibles. Think about it: you'd never let someone call you 'Hermione Swots-a-Lot'. If you did, people might think you had a sense of humor."

"Har-dee-har-har." Alright, perhaps it was something she could get her head around. Snape had far too much time on his hands, clearly, to be thinking about minutiae in the degree of depth required to erect what was apparently an entire philosophical construct. "Fine. I don't know if it's a treatise I can whole-heartedly subscribe to, but I suppose I see where you're coming from. Who was he, though, really?"

"He was an old man, an elder as they'd say 'round here. But more to the point: he was someone who knew what I was, just as much as I knew what he was. I like to think we were friends."

"What do you mean? He knew you were a wizard? Was he one too?"

"Oh no. And I'm not answering any more questions. I've told you a story, literally, and now it's your turn. There's a rhythm to drinking around a campfire, you know."

"What do you want me to tell you?" Why was she even doing this? Talking to him. It had to be the drink.

"You choose."

"Well, I suppose you might be curious about what's going on back in the UK—"

"Not terribly, no," he interrupted, "Tell me what you meant by not getting what you wanted. Through being clever, I mean."

Right, open herself all the way up, let Snape into the parts of her she'd tried so hard to quash. As if. "Don't you know what it's like, being different? I'm a person, not just a study guide, but they'd have never seen that." It came out bitter, and she instantly regretted all of the information her tone would convey to him. She hunched her shoulders, waiting for his strike.

It didn't come; when Snape finally spoke again, his words were soft, "People used you. They saw your parts, and not the sum."

What did he want her to say in response to that? Nothing apparently, because he kept talking. "The things you wanted… friends, lovers, respect – I'm getting close, aren't I? – you decided to change how people saw you. But you can't change people, you can only change yourself. Did you never think there might be other people out there, people who might see you without having to change?"

Oh, she'd been wrong. For all the quiet in his voice, this was a strike with pinpoint precision. It landed deep in the pit of her stomach. She swallowed hard, and focussed on the log in her field of vision, watching undulating red ribbons of light pulsing between the coals.

Snape rose, just as the quiet was stretching unbearably. "Bed, I reckon. We've a long day tomorrow." He gathered their dishes and utensils, and departed to his cabin.

He'd lit a lantern by the time she'd shook off her lassitude and followed him in. "Where's the loo?" She could keep this strictly professional – it was only a day or two more, at the most, and then she could exorcise him from her head.

"Around back; wait a moment while I stoke the hob, and you can have the lantern when you go. There are some rock ledges in the path; it's easy to trip."

She leaned impatiently against the door-jamb, as he tinkered with the fire. Finally, "Here, you can have it. And earlier, when I sent you for water – that was low. I'm sorry for that. Having you show up here, well, it's disordered me some. I needed a spare moment to sort you out in my head."

"Why? Why are you apologizing for things? That's the second time you've done it."

"I've come to realise that if I'm going to keep walking this path, well, there aren't any shortcuts. So maybe it's empathy through self-awareness. Earlier, that was something that would've hacked me off, so that means I owe you the apology I'd want. What you do with it now is your business; I'm in no way responsible for what goes on in someone else' head."

"What do you _want_ me to do with it?" she asked, bewildered.

"Nothing. Or whatever you want. I told you before, I don't really want things anymore."

Whatever was really going on here was vexing in the utmost but _she_ _had to wee_. "Right. Well, I'm off." She snagged the lantern, and plunged back out into the night.

By the time she'd returned, Snape had changed out the bedding, and constructed a rude nest for himself on the floor from an airbed and his quilts. Should she protest, or just accept that he was evidently trying to be chivalrous? Or perhaps she should just ignore him as best she could, because she didn't think she was quite up to conversing with Professor Snape in his nightshirt.

Snape closed the gas on the lantern, and she scrambled into bed once the mantle burned down. The darkness was soon absolute, and she turned uncomfortably for long minutes, unable to relax into alien scents and environs.

The tenth or eleventh time she'd rearranged herself, Snape's voice broke out of the darkness. "Try reciting potions ingredients. In your head and without waving your arm about, mind," he said, acerbically.

She sighed. "Was I really? An unparalleled swot?"

He couldn't possibly have fallen asleep, but he took forever in answering. "No, not unparalleled. I expect I was as bad as you."

"I'm not really that horrid, though, am I?"

"Who said you were horrid?"

"You did. Earlier. That you were surprised I could keep Ron's attention long enough to… erm."

"Good lord, it wasn't a criticism directed at _you_. You're fine. More than fine." She heard him turn over in bed. "…And on that note, I believe I've had more than enough to drink this evening. Good _night_ , Granger."

"Granger-Weasley."

Again, he took too long to respond. "As long as you're quite sure about that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks in advance to anyone who takes the time to let me know they’re out there reading! I love hearing from you guys – it keeps me writing this, instead of my dissertation.


	6. A voyage begins

She woke to a crushing weight and the heavy, dank scent of Snape’s dog.  No sooner had she gotten her eyes open than she had to fight the beast off – it was evidently determined to get at least one good lick in.  “Gah!  Call this thing off, would you?”

“Bella!” Snape was swirling a cast iron pan over the stove, and didn’t even bother to look.  But the dog backed off anyway, settling into a crouch at the foot of the bed.  She pulled the blanket up and used it to scrub the drool off her forehead.  The furry menace’s mismatched eyes were tracking her face, and there was coiled tension in its ducked head and quivering hindquarters.  “Bella, âstam.”  At this command, the dog visibly deflated and, slowly, slunk down off the bed.

It was cold out beyond the quilt, despite the merry crackling of the stove.  It may have been morning, but you couldn’t tell that from inside the cabin.  Snape had lit the lantern, but darkness still clung, in the corners and the deep shadows cast by things hanging from the roof or suspended along the walls.  “What time is it?”

“Early.”

She’d guessed that much.  He’d evidently been up for ages already; that she’d slept through his activities was testament to how exhausted she was.  But whatever Snape was cooking smelled amazing, and the longer she stayed under the covers, the longer it would be before she got home.  She scrabbled at the foot of the bed where she’d bundled yesterday’s clothes.  The soft flannel shirt and worn denim were apt to be much warmer than the tee she’d pulled on for a nightshirt.  Perhaps the morning chill would be bearable with actual clothing.  Should she ask Snape to give her some privacy?  But that meant talking to him some more.  Bugger that, she wasn’t up to it without caffeine.  She wiggled into the denims under cover of the quilt, and buttoned the shirt over her tee.

Right.  Now what?

Snape was frying pancakes.  There was already a hefty stack of fluffy, American-style cakes heaped on a platter at the back of the stove.  That tantalizing smell was lard, or bacon drippings, probably; there was a jar of off-white goo beside the batter.  And it appeared there was coffee, bless his black little soul.  She retrieved her tin cup of the night before, and poured herself a measure of sociability.  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You could chop up that fish.”

“Er…” It was obvious which fish, a soggy looking thing draped across the end of the table, headless, spineless, gutless.  Its scales glimmered.

“Cut it into chunks, half the size your fist.  Anything larger and she’ll just make an unholy mess with it.”

‘She’ could only be the dog, who clicked along the rough floorboards and settled near the table, tongue lolling out and eyes gleaming.  “I like to see she’s fed before a trip. Her ability to sit quietly is remarkably well correlated with the time since her last meal.  She’ll be less of a nuisance if she’s busy digesting.”

That was certainly reasoning she could get behind. 

“Don’t give her any from your hand, mind; she knows better than to beg.  Her dish is over by the door.” 

Ah, that must be it, beneath his rack of firearms.  She bent to scrape the icky gobs of fish flesh into the bowl, and saw that the dog’s name had been painted on the side, in lovely, deliberate cursive.  There were also little paw prints and hearts circling the rim.  She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle an importune giggle.  Nuisance, eh?  God, she couldn’t wait to tell Ron and Harry all about this disastrous misadventure.

What the hell was she going to do about Snape, though?  Tell Kingsley, obviously, but after that?  There were so many unknowns, and then all the known things that simply didn’t make any sense.  It would probably take an entire task force to sort this clusterfuck out.  Leaving aside any question of what, if anything, to do about Snape’s clandestine existence, she was a British agent, and she had been interfered with on foreign soil.  They simply couldn’t _not_ investigate this.  She’d probably have to recuse herself, however, even if a battery of evaluations at St. Mungo’s established that her mind was in fully-working, completely autonomous order.  She scowled into her coffee.

“I used to feel that way about mornings.”  He set a plate of pancakes in front of her, and swung his leg over the bench opposite.

She poured syrup over his offering.  “And you enjoy them now, do you.”

“Fresh air, good food, solitude, what’s not to enjoy?”  He just had to be mocking her.

“I suppose it’s enough for some.”  Breakfast _was_ good, though.  The pancakes were airy and crisped on their bottoms, and they soaked up the syrup like a sponge.  This, she could get used to.  “This is really tasty.”

“Maple syrup and bacon grease are a universal magic.”

“Speaking of…” How should she word this?

“Oh, let’s not.  Save a thought or two for the trip; you’ve got to learn to ration things that are in short supply.”

Ah.  There was the Snape she knew and detested.  She turned her attention back to her plate, and if she used a little more force on the helpless pancakes than was strictly necessary, well, it was surely better than stabbing _him_ with her fork.

Snape’s preparations for departure were swift and economical.  Stove damped, shutters latched and locked, dishes scrubbed, and the remains of the previous night’s bannock packed into the now-empty kettle.  “Bring all of your things.”  He underscored this command by hefting over her pack from where she’d placed it at the foot of the bed, atop his strongbox.

“Are we not coming back here?”

“You’re not.  You can wait for Holowycziuk at the camp on Hawley, just as easily.”  He tipped up the lid, and plucked out the lead-lined cash box.

Her wand.  Her fingers fairly itched to twist around it again, to feel the little knots and the smooth, satiny finish.  She was perhaps gripping her pack’s shoulder harnesses too tightly.

“You look like you’re staring in at the window of Honeydukes.  You can have it later.”  He turned away to tuck the lockbox into his own pack.

Honeydukes.  She frowned, and shoved her still-damp clothing into a drysack.  Naturally, it didn’t all fit.  Too, she was about to go on a canoe trip, so a rethink was obviously mandated.  She switched out her belongings, and the few things that _were_ still dry made a compact bundle that the neoprene drysack readily accommodated.  Why couldn’t every problem be solved so easily?  Like Snape.  Every time she’d gotten him sorted into a tidy category, he’d mutate into something new, or exhibit some perverse reversion to an earlier form.  Why couldn’t he just keep his parts together, present a single, solid identity?  Be Prince, or be Snape, or be whoever, but pick one of them, already.  He might have been busy killing off his former selves and his rhetorical multitudes, but he surely wasn’t killing them very _well_.  Lack of Astronomy Towers, perhaps.

She finished lacing her boots, and shouldered her pack over the coat he’d loaned her.  She’d been fast about it all, but still, Snape was waiting.  Impatiently, by the looks of it.  His foot was soundlessly tapping, as he leaned against the door, rifle dangling over his shoulder on a leather strap, and paddle in hand.  Which reminded her:  He’d twitted her yesterday with respect to not knowing anything about canoeing, but by God, she could learn.  “Have you got another oar?  That I could use?  If you teach me how.”

Snape gave her a considering look, then shrugged.  “Here.  And it’s a paddle.  First lesson, free.”  He proffered a second oar – alright, paddle – with bad grace. 

“Don’t bang the blade about, mind, it’s not a walking stick, either.  Like this when you’re carrying it.”  He pulled it away from her, and held it horizontally at her waist, the knobbed apex of the handle preceding her body.  “Now your hand,” he lifted her hand and placed it along the shaft, folding her fingers over it, “Goes here, at the throat.  Like so.  You keep the blade close to your body, knowing where it is, protecting it.”

She nodded her understanding, and he lifted his fingers from hers.  “Good.  Let’s go.” 

He waved her out the door, and she was glad he’d brought the lantern out with them.  The darkness was still absolute.  She shivered, and rubbed at her arms.  It was likely down to the cold, and how bloody early it was, but it took her long moments to realize he was doing something odd.  Yes, he’d latched the door, but then he’d tippy-toed up to reach something above it.  She’d thought he was placing a key, but that couldn’t be it.  He had a tuft of something in his hand, hair of some kind, which he passed over the symbols.  He muttered something, half under his breath, and poked the hair back up into a chink in the logs.

“Can I ask—”

“No.  I said, let’s go.”  He hooked the handle of the lantern with his paddle, and set off across the clearing.  She scrambled after, loathe to lose the yellow pool of light.  She didn’t care, she reminded herself.  Except it was _weird_.

It was beginning to grey up, by the time they made the beach.  A light breeze had picked up, too, and the few remaining leaves rustled out faint greetings to the inky water.  A bite of the moon glimmered on the surface of the lake.  Snape had evidently been down before she’d woken – the canoe was sitting half-in the water, and the ripple of waves against its hull sounded a hollow lament into the dawn.

The dog bounded up out of the brush, leaping past them into the belly of the canoe.  The momentum of her entry had predictable effects.  “Damn it, Bella,” Snape sighed, as he made a lunge for its stern, before it drifted out.  “Not until I’ve loaded the bloody thing.  Out.” 

Paws propped on the gunwhale, Bella peered down at the water, considering her master’s request.  She emitted a low whine, and sat back down.  Snape was probably rolling his eyes, if that snort of disgust was anything to go by.

“She’s certainly keen.  Did it take long, to get her used to this?”

“She came with the canoe, actually.”  He stowed their respective packs into the center, and the dog promptly stretched out across them.

“They had a two-for-one special, I suppose?”

“Oh, all the time, ‘Buy a boat, get a free rug.’  And double your Canadian Tire money while you’re at it.  No, I got this canoe off of one of Two Jack’s cousins, over in Peawanuck.  It was sitting in storage for a few years, and one of his bitches had got into the habit of whelping beneath it.  I didn’t immediately realise I had a stowaway, when I set off down the Winisk the next morning.  I did try to take her back, but he wasn’t having any of it, so that was half a day wasted, and I was stuck with this useless thing.”

Heh.  The mental image of Snape discovering a fluffy puppy beneath his seat – and why did her brain dress him in teaching robes? – was simply too good.  And it seemed she was getting the hang of speaking his language; his constant deprecation of the dog clearly masked a genuine fondness.  “Are you a useless thing?” She asked Bella, as she picked herself across the packs and dog, to settle again into the bow of the canoe.  “Yes you are, yes you are!”

“Granger, if you insist upon paying attention to her, it’ll be your own fault if she won’t leave you alone all morning.”  Eh, well, alright.  She hadn’t enjoyed her wake-up call all that much; it wasn’t worth a repeat performance just to tease him.

He lowered the gas on the lantern, and hoisted himself into the canoe.  Sounds were suddenly closer in the grey morning: the clink of the lantern’s handle, as he tucked it into some safe spot, the faint creak of leather, the blunt clunk of his paddle as he levered them off the beach.  Bella yawned, a high-pitched sound that was too loud in the oppressive half-light.

“Look over to the Narrows.  North.  The other North.  See that?  Fog banks.”  Snape’s voice was a low murmur, but he didn’t otherwise seem subdued by the stillness.  “How much energy have you got this morning?”

“Why?” she asked, wary.

“We can make three easy portages and go ‘round the west side of the Narrows, or we can make one brutal haul up over the east side.”

“The east would be shorter, I gather.”

“It’d take less time.”

“Portaging is carrying the canoe overland, right?”

“You’ll carry the packs, I’ll handle the canoe.  It’s no good with two people, anyway, too easy to get off balance.  That’s what this is for, the yoke.”

She turned to look at what he’d tapped.  Aha, now she could see it, the carved wooden slat that transected the middle of the canoe was shaped to brace along the back of someone’s neck.  It was how he’d lifted it yesterday, she supposed.  Maybe the other crossbars had a purpose, too.  “What’re these?”

“Thwarts? Structural support, mostly.  I’ll lash the paddles onto them for the portage.  So then it’ll just be the packs to carry.  Altogether, the gear is probably one-twenty, one-thirty pounds.”

“What’d you _bring_?”

“Things.  I might not hurry back once I’ve rid myself of you.  We can do the haul in a couple trips, if need be.”

“Then we should take the faster route, and make up for time.”

“That was my thinking.”

So why ask me?  She chewed at her lip.  Maybe he was just trying to be conversational.  If that was the case, the next thing out of his mouth was apt to be a refined blend of vituperative sarcasm, because he’d been pleasant for nearly a quarter of an hour, now.  He was due.  Should she ask for trouble?  “Alright, tell me how to use this paddle.  You said it would be faster with two people.”

“Maybe.  Maybe it would be faster.”  He sounded very doubtful.  “You’ll want to start off the way you mean to continue, so you’ll have to kneel up.  Not like that, or you’ll be arse over teakettle.  Keep your weight back towards the center.  Good.  Rest back on the seat, yes.  Brilliant, step one, and you haven’t drowned.  Congratulations.”

“Why kneeling?  Out of curiosity.”

“Because I’m going to teach you the voyageur stroke.  It’s efficient, powerful, and won’t wear you out – _if_ you use your torso, and not your arms.”  _Like a halfwit would_ , his tone implied.  “Watch how I do this.  Your far hand goes down at the throat, like I showed you earlier.  Your near hand up here, on the grip.  Now fold your fingers down and point your thumb out to the water.”

She turned back, and concentrated on copying his grip.  This felt alarmingly like trying to position her hands properly on a broomstick, and she was utter shite at that.

“Relax your shoulders, Granger.  That’s fine.  Now watch: the broad side of the blade pushes against the water, right?  Basic Newtonian physics.  So you pull the paddle back towards yourself, in a straight line.  Try.  Well, that’s a start.  See how I’m keeping the shaft along the gunwhale?  Do it like that, because you’re wasting energy, the further your paddle is from the canoe. 

Better.  Now, at the end of the stroke, don’t just leave it dragging in the water like that.  Watch again. You pivot the blade, outwards, like you’re drawing a ‘J’, and you end up with the narrow edge leading; knife that back up through the water for your next stroke, then pivot back to the broad side, and dip in again.  Yes, but you’re going to give yourself carpal tunnel syndrome like that -- keep the shaft against the canoe throughout the stroke.  Use the gunwhale instead of your wrists, until you’re dipping in on the next stroke.”

She had cold sweat between her shoulder blades, and it wasn’t the activity.  Why had she volunteered, what had she wanted to prove?

“You’re doing fine, Granger.  Ease your back up a little, this isn’t a competition.  We’ve got all day.  Good, that stroke was nearly perfect, just don’t splash up and out quite so high.”

God.  _Years_ of striving for the slightest crumb of praise, and it was learning to paddle a fucking canoe that finally earned it.  She shook her head, and corrected her motion.

“Excellent, precisely like that.”

“Do I get an ‘O’, Professor?” She ground it out past clenched teeth.

“Sure, why not, I’m feeling magnanimous.  And all the house points you like.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with Severus Snape?”

He actually chuckled, low and dark.  The sound gave her a shiver, or maybe that was the wind.  Surely it was the wind.  She concentrated on paddling, and carefully did not think about Snape, except to note that he’d adjusted his own strokes to fall between each of hers.  She tried to smooth out her timing.

“I think you’ve got the hang of it, Granger.”

He sounded authentically pleased, and so she just had to ask: “Was there anything you did like, about teaching?”

“Hah,” he emitted a little huff of laughter, “The paycheque, I suppose.  No, every now and then, there’d be some bright thing that was genuinely worth the effort.  Too few of them kept that spark, though.  For which I reckon I shared some culpability, but then, nothing could have ever damped down _my_ love of learning.  So.”

To her own surprise, she thought she understood where he was coming from.  “I know.  I know what you mean.  I liked your class, even if you were… less than benevolent as an instructor.  It was a challenge, and it was, it was…”

“It was magic.  And nothing would stop you learning that, nothing in the world.”  His voice was suddenly so gentle she could barely make out his words.

The conversation, if it had been one, subsided into the soft, repetitive splish of their paddles, until Snape seemed to rouse himself with an inward sigh and a yawn.  “So what did?  Finally stop you learning, I mean?”

She bit back her first impulse and chewed over his question.  “I don’t know,” she finally sighed.  “I guess it was the war.  Afterwards, we were all so busy getting on with our lives, and my life seemed to be about making a real difference, and not just burrowing down into books that no one else could ever be inspired to care about.”

“What constitutes ‘a difference’, though?  What is different about the world you’re creating?”

“Ugh.  Honestly, nothing.  I helped get an act on domestic abuse of House Elves passed, but it’s rarely enforced.  And now that I’m actually with Law Enforcement, I can see why.”

“So you gave up a life of the mind for a life of what, exactly?”

“You do have a particular talent for making things seem as grim as possible.”

“Why thank you, I cultivate it assiduously.”

“I’ll bet.  It may not be a ‘life of the mind’, as you put it, but it’s a life.  I have my work, and I do enjoy being useful there, and I have my family.”

“Ah.  So you’re one of those parents who lives vicariously through their offspring.”

“Good Lord, no.  No, I thought Rosie, at least, might turn out to be a little like me.  But no.  They’re their father’s children.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” she added, belatedly.

“No, of course not.  The world always needs more slack-jawed sidekicks, more Quidditch players.”

“Fuck off, Snape.  That’s my husband you’re talking about, _my_ _kids_.”

“Fine, settle down.  Alright, it was an uncalled for remark, and I’m sorry.  It’s just… You’re such a _waste_ , Granger.  It bothers me.  You have a functioning brain and so much… of… everything that…” He stuttered down to a halt, and she was content to leave him there.

“Granger-Weasley,” she got the last word in and turned her attention fully back to propelling the canoe onwards, into a future in which she didn’t have to put up with his abuse.

It hadn’t really gotten _light_ , yet, but there were hopeful signs.  She could see the shore, low and dark, shrouded in fog.  Little swirls of mist were rising, like spectres, from the surface of the leaden water.  There was no birdsong.  No life, anywhere beyond their canoe.

“Take a breather.  A break, I mean.  I’m going to bring us in closer to the shore; it doesn’t look like this fog will lift anytime soon.”

“It’s so quiet here.  Is it always like this?” Whoops, she’d been planning on not-talking to him.

“No.  Summers are stereotypical Canada.  Loon calls, ducks, the lot of it.  And the aspen leaves are always rustling.  Winters, you’ll hear the snow falling, hear the wind, the trees groaning in the cold.  Hear the wolves, too.  But it’s getting late in the season now, the geese are mostly gone, and most of the songbirds.  Ravens stay.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“Yes.  They are very lonely sounds, most of them.”  His voice was quiet, and wistful.  She wondered what his life was really like, out here.  He didn’t answer her unspoken musings, just expertly maneuvered them around a fallen tree. Its skeletal limbs poked up out of the water, still striving for the sky they once reached into. 

“There, hear that?  The water.”

She cocked her head.  She could just make out a faint chuckling, a riffle of water over rocks.

“We’re nearly at the Narrows.  There’s nothing in the way of a beach, on this side.  It’s just rock, like this.” He indicated the bank with the blade of his paddle. 

It was an observation that didn’t require any comment, but she did eventually think of something to say: “It’s because you said ‘slack-jawed’.  Otherwise, yes.”

He didn’t miss a heartbeat. “Hmm.  I shall restrain myself in future, then.” 

Well, what, had she been expecting him to apologize for insulting Ron?  Did it matter that he wouldn’t?  She’d ignored his cracks yesterday, what had changed?  Nothing, she told herself firmly.

“This will do.  We’ll stop up here,” he indicated a heavy tree trunk leaning over the water, “You can crawl up, and I’ll hand the packs across to you.”  Good, the prospect of a brisk walk with less of Snape’s immediate company could only be classed as a positive development. 

The dog bounded out of the canoe, paws churning up moss as she scrambled over the rocky ledge.  Hermione studied her ascent with minor trepidation.

“Use the tree like a ladder, it’ll be easier than it looks.  Come over here, and I’ll help you balance.”

The canoe rocked alarmingly, as she half-knelt, half-crawled into the center.  The prospect of being even closer to Snape didn’t substantially ease her concerns --the opposite, if anything.  He rolled his eyes, as she leaned, hesitantly, upon his shoulder.  Somehow that helped.  “Right, now grab that branch and pull yourself up, here, I’ve got your legs.  You’re fine.”

Some brief acrobatics saw their packs safely stowed against the bole of a tree, and she collapsed against another, legs trembling.  Snape, meanwhile, had swung himself down along the side of the overhang, and, bracing against it, was wrestling the canoe up on shore.  He’d shed his coat, and she could see unsuspected powerful muscles rippling beneath the plaid of his shirt.  There was no hesitation in his stance, and within moments he’d got the canoe over his shoulders.  He crested the rise half-crouched, long fingers of one hand white with tension, as he gripped at a sapling to haul himself up the final few feet.  “That,” he huffed, as he rolled the canoe off his shoulders and sagged back onto the moss beside her, “Does not get easier, no matter how often you do it.  Next time, I’ll use a rope.  Bella, you hear that?  Remind me.”

The dog trotted over, and gazed earnestly at his supine body.  She sniffed at his chest, and whined.  “Alright, fine, I’m getting up,” he sighed.  “Ready for the next bit, Granger?”

No, but that hardly mattered.  She shouldered her pack, and cinched in the hip strap. 

“Grab the gun, and the lantern case, please. I’ll come back for the rest of it.” 

He’d said ‘please’.  Wonders never ceased, but she didn’t verbalise her wry astonishment at the hitherto-unknown extent of his vocabulary.  He had, after all, said ‘please’.

She had no idea how Snape navigated, from beneath the hull of the canoe, but before long, they had pushed through a rank of spruce and intersected a shallow path, deep with fallen needles and fog-damped leaves.  “This is the portage.”  His voice echoed hollow from beneath the boat.  “It makes a kind of loop around the Narrows.  If you went to the west, this brush clears out, and you’d be on the rock itself.  But you can’t get down off of it on the north side; it’s all broken, steep.”

“So you found the easiest route, then?”

“Me?  No.  This was here forever.  I just happened across it and found out where it went.  If you look hard enough, anywhere in this country, you can see where someone else has already figured everything out.”

“How do you know it’s not just, I don’t know, a game route?”  There had been plenty of deer trails in the Forest of Dean; she could still remember her frustration, following a path that petered off into nowhere.

“Oh, I didn’t even think.  I should’ve pointed out the lobstick when we went past it.  You can’t get up that way anymore, not easily.  I should probably go and clear out the deadfall, some day.”

“What’s a lobstick?”

“A marker.  The Omushkegos—well, lots of groups, really—they would cut all the branches off a spruce tree, except for the very top.  Peel the bark, sometimes, too.  I’ll show you the one on the Hawley side when we get there.”

She shrugged the pack a little higher on her shoulders, and quickened her pace.  How the hell was Snape, at fifty-something, managing to outpace her while carrying a bloody canoe?  Too, “How’d you learn all this? Lobsticks.  And bears, and rifles, and canoes, and—well, the lot of it.”

He was quiet for so long she assumed he intended to ignore her entirely.  But perhaps he’d just been doing some internal editing.  “When the Bureau placed me, they put me in touch with a witch down in Moosonee.  She, in turn, handed me off to her uncle Two Jack.”

“The so-called Bureau of Mysteries.”  Which she suspected was a figment of his imagination.

“That’s the one.”

Right. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what this Bureau of Mysteries thinks you’re doing out here?  Besides fishing?”

“You’re clever enough to answer that one for yourself.”

Hah.  “Alright, why would someone want you in Toronto, as opposed to out here?”

“And what you’re really asking is, why did someone interrupt your weekend with an impromptu excursion to the hinterlands?”

There was justice in this remark.  “The _Imperius_ curse.  That bothers me.  What’s the political landscape like around here, who would use something like that?”

“More people than you’d imagine.  And that’s true back in Old Blighty, too.” 

Probably.  She’d seen enough odd files to wonder, herself. 

“But in your specific case, I don’t know.  There just isn’t enough information.  Your network of contacts here is so small, this should be easy, but I’m missing something.”

‘ _This should be easy_ ’ was an odd way of putting it.  She’d have liked to see his face when he said that, instead of the hull of the canoe.  It implied that he was not only cognizant that there was an issue that had sides to it, but that he knew who the key players on each side might be.  She wondered if he realised the import of having dropped that phrase, because it wholly confirmed that Something Was Going On.  It tallied up with his jotting notes about her encounters, and wouldn’t she like to get her hands on that notebook?  Because the likelihood of Snape volunteering to untangle the mystery had to be close to zero.

Her calves were beginning to burn; surely they didn't need to go so _fast_? “Maybe start with a list of people you’ve pissed off, lately?”

He snorted.  “Normally, an excellent idea that would furnish a great many suspects.  No, the question is, who do they think I am?  Who or what did they think they were trying to capture?  If we know motive, we know identity.  Maybe.

But we don’t know that.  We don’t know anything.  So we wait.  It’s like calling moose.  Most of the time you just sit quietly in a tree stand, waiting for your prey to come to you.  Knowing how to wait is an acquired skill, but I’ve found it’s well worth the effort.  And you can have a free lesson in that arcane art, this morning.”

“A lesson in waiting?” Joy.  The path had opened out, and she could see they were back at the water.

“I’ll head back and fetch the rest of the gear.  See if you can get a fire started; we’ll boil some water for tea and have an early lunch.”

The way he said it, you’d think it was the easiest thing in the world.  _See if you can get a fire started_.  Indeed.  There wasn’t a bit of dry wood anywhere around here, by the look of things.  If it wasn’t damped from the fog, it was rotting beneath the moss and lichen that suffocated everything.  A stand of spruce finally yielded some likely kindling; she’d had to duck in under the boughs, and snap off dry twigs from close to the trunk.  A pile of deadfall furnished some bigger pieces that she thought might catch, too.

She dug a cigarette lighter and an emergency candle out of her pack.  She’d had enough ‘fun’ camping with Harry and Ron to have learned a few tricks about starting a fire – the real key to success in the endeavour was to cheat.  She lit the wick, and nudged the flame beneath her kindling.  It sparked, and smoked, and caught.  She stacked a few larger branches over it, and settled back on her heels.

Wheedling the fire into larger pieces of wood had been a good distraction from being alone, but Snape and his dog still hadn’t returned by the time the blaze was stable.  She made another circuit of the rocky beach. She picked out the tree that was probably the lobstick he'd mentioned -- it was distinctive, alright. Aside from that, the place offered few rewards upon casual exploration. She gathered another armload of dead wood, but that too was only a fleeting occupation. 

It was just so quiet!  Her skin kept prickling up in gooseflesh.  The cold wasn’t even that bad anymore, but she felt chilled, deep inside.  Every crunching step seemed to grate loud in her ears.  What if something was out there?  Bears, or… wolves?  Wolves didn’t eat people, she told herself.  Turning her back to the trees was worse than to the water.  She hunkered down next to the fire, and firmly informed herself that she was only watching the trail so as to see Snape when he returned.

A sudden cracking, deep in the bush, made her yelp.  She clapped her hands over her mouth, and froze.  It hadn’t heard her.  It couldn’t have.  It had.

It was the dog, of course.

And Snape.

Who either hadn’t seen her behaving like an idiot, or was kindly not mentioning it.  She’d put her money on the former, if she had to bet on it.

He routed the kettle from his pack, and the leftover bannock.  He’d wrapped it in a towel, which he spread over a rock now, like a picnic blanket.  She fetched water without comment, and soon they were seated at the fire, waiting for the tea to steep.  Snape sliced up the bannock, and, with a sly eyebrow, demonstrated one of the mysterious items that was weighing down his pack.

“Raspberry jam, the best you’ve had.”

Tasting it, she had to agree with his assessment.  “So you put up preserves, too?” She asked, around another heady burst of flavour.

“No, I’m usually too busy in the summers.  This is Bella’s.”

Clearly, dogs did not make jam.  “What do you mean?”

“Nancy’s in love with this lazy rug; she’s always giving her presents, anytime we’re down to Moosonee.  Oh, stop with the eyes, pup, I’m sure there’s a slice or two for you, as well.”  He slathered over a slice of bannock so that the jam fairly dripped off the edges, and presented it for Bella’s appraisal.  “Manners,” he warned.  She delicately lipped the treat from his hand, and it vanished in a couple gulps and some summary flicks of her pink tongue.

Hermione hid a grin in her cup.  “I never thought about dogs liking sweets.”

“Honestly, it’s probably the raspberries, because I’ve never seen her get excited over a biscuit.  It’s the damnedest thing, watching her go to it in a thicket of raspberries; she just licks the berries right into her mouth.  I’m forever untangling old canes from her fur in the summers.”  Snape’s tone was one of disgusted aggravation, but she didn’t believe it for a second.  “Nancy caught her at tricks, once, and so of course I had to tell tales on Bella.  So now she loads me up with raspberry jam every time I see her.”

“Was she at the Idle No More rally with you?”  She tested a theory, and he bit:

“Rather, I was at it with her.  She and her half-sisters, from Moose Factory, went down together.  Other people, too.  I had things I needed to deal with in Ottawa, so it worked out.”

“Things with the Bureau?” She kept her tone bored and uninterested, but he saw through it.

“Mmm.  Not really. Here, Bel, I’d ask if you want another one, but that’s a stupid question.”  The dog had been watching the disappearance of both bannock and jam with what was all too obviously increasing consternation.  When Snape gave her the last piece, she carried it back from the fire, settled on her haunches, and proceeded to lick the jam off with grave attention to detail.

Hermione couldn’t help it, she laughed outright. “God, you can tell she’s got a personality.”

“She’s a weird furry person, pretty much.”

“I can see it.  And I suppose there’s value in having company out here.  Earlier, when you went back for your pack.  It was so still.  Lonely, sort of freaky, actually.”

“‘Freaky’ is a bit of an exaggeration, but yes.  The vast emptiness of this place grates on some people.”

“It isn’t, though.  An exaggeration.  It was… It’s hard to describe.  But it made me think of Dementors.”  She muttered the last, but it sounded just as stupid at a lower volume, so she clarified, “I mean, not really, but sort of… I mean…”

“Hmm.  Like you’d been hit with a sudden, cold breeze, and everything in your chest kind of missed firing for a second, like you forgot to breathe because you were sure there was something big and hungry staring right here, at the back of your neck?”  He touched two fingers to her spine, and she jumped.

“Gah!  Yes.  What is wrong with you?”  She rubbed hard at her neck, but the sensation lingered.

“Oh, I’m just fucking with you, Granger.”

“Are you.”

“Well, maybe.  Or maybe it was Pakaaskokan.”

“What’s a… paka… whatever?”

“Pakaaskokan?  People say, sometimes, they get a scared, deeply-cold feeling, or the wind comes up suddenly from the northeast and then it’s gone in the next breath.  They say it’s Pakaaskokan flying over.  It’s a thing, it’s supposed to come from the Mooshawow, maybe.  A flying human skeleton.  They used to see it caught up in a tree, sometimes.  Bad luck to see that, like a curse.  But some stories, they say you should talk to it, help untangle it.  Depends, I guess.  ‘Mr Bones’, or ‘Bag of Bones’, is the way they’ll usually tell you it translates.  But the truth is, we don’t have a word for it.”

Her fingernails were making little red moons on her palm.  A story, only.  Like monsters under the bed.  She uncurled her fingers.  “So it’s an aboriginal myth?”

“Not really, no.  Their stories… They have these culture legends, that tell about the world before our kind of people, human beings, were here.  The people were all animal people, heroes and tricksters and the like.  Giant animals, supernatural feats.  Those are understood to have happened in prehistory, they’re legends the way we think of that word.  And then there are oral histories, the stories that happened to people’s ancestors, their relatives, themselves.  Pakaaskokan comes from those stories.”

His pensive tone was putting icy chills up her back.  “But it’s still just a story.”

“Nothing’s ever ‘just a story’, Granger.  We’re made of stories.  Stories we tell about ourselves, stories others tell.  Stories we hear, stories we live.  In the end, the only thing that remains of us is a story, so it seems to me that they’re the part of us that is truly immortal.  The rest is just meat.  And bones.  …Maybe Mr. Bag of Bones is just someone who lost his stories, eh?”  He gave her a wan smile. 

She wondered how much of it he actually believed; the answer she came up with was not reassuring. She flexed her shoulder blades, but it didn’t help. “Right, but it’s not real.”  This was an important point to clarify.

“What, because you didn’t read about Pakaaskokan in a book?  Werewolves are real.  Magic is real.”

“But we know what werewolves _are_.  The _were-_ virus.  And magic, too, we have theories that explain it.”

“Ah.  Theories.  You’re right, nothing is ever real until we’ve got a theory to explain it.  Observations can’t be credited, unless they go hand-in-glove with a theory, eh?  So happens, I _do_ have theories about Pakaaskokan.”

“Dementors?” She guessed.  It would make sense, and the sensations he’d described were similar enough to how the Dementors had made her feel, back when they’d been stationed around Hogwarts during third year. 

“That’s one idea.  But I don’t think so, no.  There are two basic schools of thought on it – no, I’m not the only one with ideas.  _Some_ people don’t dismiss indigenous stories straight out of hand.  Anyway, on one side, it’s possible that people used to see tree burials.  And so you could see how a story got started that a flying skeleton had gotten caught in a tree; throw in the suggestion of a curse, and people leave the body alone.  Which fits, if you ignore the fact that Swampy Cree didn’t practise tree burials.  Still, rarity of the practise might account for a flying-skeleton story.   Until you bring in the Mooshawow.  That’s the name for Cape Henrietta Maria; it’s a barren piece of tundra and rock, up north on the coast.  So why does Pakaaskokan come from there?  Cultural association with horrible events?  There was at least one massacre up there, of Omushkegos by Inuit, if you accept oral history.”  He had been spreading the coals from their fire as he talked.  He paused to grind them into the rocks with the toe of his boot.

“So that’s what you think it is?”  She scuffed a few of the embers on her side which were still glowing.

“No.  I think Pakaaskokan is real.  I mean _really_ real.  I don’t think it’s a Dementor, because by all accounts it doesn’t act like they do, but my guess is that it comes from the same kind of place.  And probably the same way.”

“Dementors being borne out of human misery, you mean?”

“No.  Dementors are _drawn_ to human misery, to fear, to evil.  Where they come from is another thing entirely.”  He tipped the last of the tea into a thermos, and whistled for the dog.

“But the theory is that they manifested out of the Dark magics that Ekrizdiz used to torture and pervert the souls of—”

“Of lured Muggle sailors, yes, thank you for the textbook definition, Miss Granger.  Have you ever thought to consider what ‘manifested out of’ might actually entail?”

“Not being a practitioner of Dark magic, no.”  She resumed her seat in the canoe, and Snape shoved them off from the shore again.

“You don’t have to practice things to understand them.  Didn’t we have this conversation, already?  Dark or not, any time you cast a spell, what are you doing?”

“Opening an effect window.”

“To _where_ , Granger?”

“To a vibrational plane, a quantum universe, wherein the desired effect of your spell is a manifest reality.  And _don’t_ snark me again about textbooks, you wanted me to say that.  Why?”

“So let’s say we accept Everett’s multiverse-stroke-metaverse model.  Modified, as I must insist, by effect windows as multidimensional probability spaces, that is, having ‘leaky’ edges where they are both open and closed, consistent with Schrödinger’s dual states, dependent on quantum universe.”

“Entropy.  I actually do agree with that, it makes a good deal of sense, and absolutely accounts for why magical residue builds up over time.”

“Why thank you, Granger, I was waiting with bated breath, desperate for your approval.”

Her paddle might have ground back along the gunwhale with a little more force than necessary, but she was – horror of horrors – beginning to get used to him. “You’re just biologically wired to be sarcastic, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

“Ok, but getting back to spells.  You cast a spell, and really what you’re doing is opening an effect window, to a universe in which the desired consequence of that particular spell exists.  And, fine, there is some small probability of that window being both open and closed at the same time, so a little bit of magic leaks through.”

“But I said ‘multidimensional probability space’ – yes, there’s the dimensions in which the window is open and closed, but there are also infinite other dimensions of that space, accounting for the probability of accessing a quantum universe in which the effect exists.”

“So… each spell, each effect window, comprising a certain probability of, uh, hitting the right universe? And, I guess, hitting some wrong ones, too.”

“Sure, that’s close enough for horseshoes and hexes.”

“You do realise that I’m fairly near lost, now.”

“You’re not lost, Granger.  You’re in a canoe, and I’m steering, and I know exactly where we’re going.”

“Hah.  Funny.  What I meant is, what do effect-windows-as-multidimensional-probability-spaces have to do with Dementors?  And this flying skeleton thing?”

“Everything.  And nothing.  I have long been of the opinion that it is a supreme sort of arrogance to assume that our own sentience, or what passes for it, is fundamentally unique in the metaverse.  When we access a quantum universe, we don’t stop to have a look around, do we?  We open up a hole in the fabric of reality, bring through the effect we want, and carry on with the washing up.  How do we know that something hasn’t seen us do that?  How do we know that something isn’t looking back at us, through our leaky windows?”

It was a metaphor gone mad, but that didn’t stop it being a good question.  She swallowed hard, past a throat gone inexplicably tight.  The wind was picking up, and waves made little shudders along the hull of the canoe.

A few snowflakes drifted down out of the heavy skies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pakaaskokan _is a real story, which belongs to the Mushkegowuk First Nations, and not to me, or you, or the Harry Potter universe. Snape’s thoughts are his own._
> 
> _UK readers will likely be scratching their head, and wondering why Snape has adopted Scots quickbreads, i.e., bannock. My fellow Canadians likely know what the deal is: a great many First Nations and Métis Canadians can trace at least one ancestor back to the Orkney Isles – for example, Chief William Twatt, who signed Treaty Six on behalf of what is now Sturgeon Lake First Nation, was a grandson of the Orcadian Magnus Twatt, a carpenter and canoeman for the Hudson’s Bay Company. Anyway, the up-shot of all this is that bannock, and its deep-fried, slightly sweet, equivalent ‘fry bread’, is something you’ll find in nearly any indigenous kitchen. Nancy or Two Jack must have given him a recipe._
> 
>  _Here is my family’s recipe for bannock:_  
>  8 cups all-purpose flour  
> 8 tsp double-acting baking powder (I swear by ‘Magic’ brand)  
> 4 tbsp white/caster sugar  
> 2 tsp salt  
> ¾ cup canola oil (or melted lard, but the texture will be a little different)  
> 2 ½ cups cold milk or water
> 
> Knead together until smooth, adding extra liquid as necessary to make a soft dough. Press out onto a greased 9x12 pan, to about an inch thickness, and poke holes in with a fork. Dust with dry flour. Bake in a 425°F oven, on a middle rack for 25 min, or until gently browned at the top. To cook over a campfire, wrap inch-wide strands of dough around a peeled willow stick, and hold it over hot coals until it puffs and browns. Or use a cast iron skillet. Whatever works for you.


End file.
